


Klexos

by Lyonface



Series: Klexos - AU!Inquisition Series [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bi!Solas, DLC Spoilers, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M, Rivalry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyonface/pseuds/Lyonface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Searching for purpose and a life stripped from him, Fenris searches for a way to locate his lost memories and build a foundation for his identity. When he hears of someone he used to know, he seeks him out, only to find himself tumbling into an organization with the fate of the world on its shoulders. While helping to fight for the fate of Thedas, can the former slave reclaim what was taken from him, and what memories will he forge along the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title, Klexos, refers to the art of dwelling on the past. It is a word invented by John Koenig and a part of a lexicon named "The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows." The video discussing it can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxN1YnVUfjM).
> 
> Tags will be added as they occur. Thanks to Onyona for being my lovely editor. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll begin with a prologue and first chapter in one.
> 
> All comments and criticism are appreciated.

 

 

[ ](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/142277398288/klexos-give-and-take-this-is-the-completed)

Cover art by me. Click the image to see the picture without text!

 

 

* * *

**Prologue:**

           He truly believed that he would never be back here again. The oppressive walls of garish embroidery, the curling dragons reflecting in golds against the maroon tapestries and drapes that hung high above cold cobblestone that echoed the sounds of chains, cries, and despair. This was a place he had nearly forgotten, the lower chambers of the mansion he still didn’t want to believe he was sitting in, naked and chained. Hell, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be enslaved, or so he told himself. Even as it haunted him while he was free, being back her now made him realize just how much the memories had begun to fade. The freedom he’d experienced had all but wiped away what it was like to feel constant humiliation, your dignity stripped from you. Even in Kirkwall, a haven for desperate blood mages, the veil didn’t feel quite so manipulated and suffocating like it did in Tevinter.

           Fenris stared with unseeing eyes at his bare legs, the lyrium bands crawling up his thighs were gleaming faintly in response to the two mages in the room, preparing for the spell that would take his memories from him once again. He remembered the distant look he was given as his most trusted friend handed him over to Danarius and his sister, Varania. The man he had fallen in love with had betrayed him in the worst possible way, this heartbreak completely unlike when he had left him for Anders. Even when Isabela had protested Hawke's decision to sell him, against Danarius and Hawke, she didn’t stand a chance.

           The elf’s ear twitched as he heard Varania whisper something to Danarius. Removing his memories along with his will to disobey would return him to the begging, desperate creature he had been for much of what he could remember of his life. He wrinkled his nose at the thought, staring back down at the stone floor. Then again, if he were to be a slave, it would be a blessing not to have knowledge or experience of something different, right? Why would he want to remember freedom when he couldn’t attain it again?

           A tremor ran through his body as he chuckled silently. Of course he would want the pain to go away, to have it taken from him. He had spent so many of his free years running, hiding, from Danarius, from his past, from Hawke… It had been a decade and what did he have to show for it? He was still weak willed, an imbecile scared of his own shadow.

           “It’s time, Fenris, my _little wolf_ ,” Danarius finally spoke to him, his magic crackling and echoing in the stone chamber. “You’ll be mine once again, and you won’t have any of these pesky memories to taunt you.” His robes just barely brushed the floor as he strode to stand in front of the elf’s bowed head.

           Fenris made a move to look up but hesitated. A slave does not look at his master unless told to do so. A slave is an extension of his master’s will. A slave is nothing but a tool. He lowered his head again, staring at the dip where his knee caps met.

           “Yes, you are learning quickly, my pet,” the magister cooed, the grin evident in his tone. A shuffle of robes and Varania moved to stand somewhere on Fenris’s left. A few more footsteps signaled that the other mages who had been waiting on Danarius’s instructions had situated themselves around the elf. Soon the memories would be hidden away behind a powerful spell, and he would be unhappy again, but at least he would be ignorant.

           His shoulders stiffened, his back arching forward as he braced for the pain of the spell, his brands reacting to the mage’s incantations as the veil manipulated around him. Until Hawke he hadn’t much cared for who he was before or the memories of his family that he was missing. Until Hawke, he hadn’t worried over the person he was before he received his brands. Until Hawke, he had never known trust, friendship, love, or confidence… Until Hawke…

           He barely registered a command until the pain was on him, inside him. His brands seared as if they were being made in his skin anew, the magic twisted around and into the lyrium in his skin to draw their power. His body contorted automatically, his muscles becoming rigid, his back straightening violently as a roar of pain ripped from his lungs, almost deafening as it echoed all around them. His markings glowed brightly now, the blue-white color bursting from him as the incantation penetrated his mind, erasing everything that had come to define who he was, more than his time as a slave, more than the damned lyrium, and more than Danarius could ever hope to influence him.

           Fenris grinned maniacally, just barely noticing the tears that had made a path down his face to his neck. Even as Danarius removed everything he had come to cherish and regret in Kirkwall, he knew he could get them back, unearth them if—no, _when_ he escaped again. It may take a long time, but his desire for freedom could never be erased, could never be taken from him again. Danarius’s biggest accomplishment would also be his undoing, and the branding that granted Fenris access to magic beyond him will be what he uses to kill him once and for all. One day, his slave mindset would crumble away and he would dash into the night again, leaving behind his chains forever. He would claw, crush, and slaughter his way out if he had to. He would kill Danarius. He would kill Varania. He would kill…

           He pictured him. Dark messy hair, honey eyes glinting orange with the light of the fireplace in that Uptown mansion. His sharp chin made rustic, Ferelden, by his dark beard as he smiled that toothy, goofy smile that dimpled his cheeks. An expression full of mirth, adoration, and ardor that changed as lyrium bands closed around his throat.

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Chapter 1**

           Fenris awoke with a start, blinking rapidly as the sun strained to break through the broken, rotting wood that protected him from the outside. He was in an abandoned shack he had found the night before. He was happy to find even the most temporary of shelters to hide him from the roaming wildlife and bandits.

           Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to recall the dream that had flashed through his conscience not moments ago. It had been painful and draining, and he was sure it had been a memory. They almost exclusively came to him as dreams while he slept, and were only discernible by the strange sensation that accompanied them; the feeling of a thread or a small tendril pulling through his psyche, like fitting a piece into a puzzle, and it made him feel more whole, more himself when he awoke. This one had been intense, a latent tingling in the markings along his shoulders and back a testament to the lingering sympathetic response from his markings flaring in his mind. He pulled his fingers from his eyes and drew them over his pronounced cheekbones and down to his jaw, sighing. He couldn’t remember anymore, it was gone.

           The elf ran his fingers through his overgrown, messy white hair and swept it out of his face as a breeze rattled loose planks in the roof above him. He yawned and stretched, his tan skin pulling tightly across taught muscle and bone, a physique the warrior required in order to haul, much less wield, his greatsword for many miles of walking every day. Sleeping on a dirty bedroll on the ground afforded him no truly restful nights and the ache in his upper back was starting to come back to him. He had earned a few nights at inns or homes and they had spoiled him to ruffing in the outdoors, despite how sparse nights in those comfortable beds were.

           Heaving another sigh, the elf stood and began to collect the few belongings he had removed from his pack the night before. He rolled up the musty bedroll along with the chewed blanket he used and gathered a few cooking utensils and an old whetstone into a pile by his pack before getting dressed. The armor he wore was an amalgamation of pieces that he had collected for the past couple of years since escaping from Danarius. Not long after escaping the mansion he found his sparse leathers to be rather poor protection against most weaponry, so he scrounged together pieces that he found. He kept his tiered breastplate and found a few effects in a heap of Venatori not far from the border of Minrathous, including chainmail, clawed pauldrons and gauntlets. He hid and stole the rest of his supplies by stealing from smuggling caravans, some that seemed to contain more Venatori clothing to supply he cult with equipment. One appeared to be carrying elven supplies, including leggings, shin guards, and a hood that he affixed to his breast plate. It didn’t cover all of his vulnerable areas, but it was significantly better than the almost zero protection that the outfit Danarius had him wear covered. He struggled putting on the layers of armor at first, but he became proficient at it in due time.

           After tying his unkempt hair behind his head, he placed his effects inside of his pack and saw a worn copy of _The Champion of Kirkwall_ snugly fitted into the bottom. He hesitated a moment and looked at the novel, the edges rubbed down and the binding in horrible shape from use and, he guessed, misuse as well. It had been given to him, along with a meager meal and pay, by a man whose daughter he had rescued from slavers some months back. He had remarked that he reminded him of a character in the book and that the author was a renowned writer. Not particularly wanting the parting gift but feeling rude if he rejected it, he had accepted. Fenris tore his gaze from the book now, putting his small group of objects on top and closing the sack tight.

           As the former slave affixed his greatsword to his back and slung the pack over his shoulder, he found himself glad that he had taken the book in the end. For the nearly two years that he had roamed the Free Marches after escaping from Tevinter, he had been told by many that his appearance was reminiscent of someone they had heard of before, the name of this particular book coming up too often for it to be a coincidence. At first he had been afraid, not knowing if it was a friendly recognition or a damnable one, but those who had the confidence to speak to him at all, let alone divulge this information to him, all seemed innocent enough. Before acquiring the book, he’d learned that the author’s name was Varric Tethras, a surface dwarf that was a member of the merchant guild, and most gleaned that he was somewhere in Ferelden after leaving Kirkwall for something important. Despite owning a copy of the book he possibly stars in, he couldn’t bring himself to begin reading it. The idea that he could be reading a true (though embellished) version of a life he couldn’t remember did not sit well with him, and he preferred simply to have it on the off chance he got over the uneasiness.

           Taking a moment to pull his hood over his head, Fenris pushed open the door to his shelter. It groaned unpleasantly as it rested in an uneven frame, facing out the greater farmlands. Blinking again as his deep green eyes adjusted to the bright sun breaking through the clouds, he gathered his bearings and headed south. Some time ago he had determined that finding Varric was the closest thing that he could think of to getting his memories back, and perhaps some sense of what to do with himself. As interesting as aimlessly wandering the Free Marches had been, he had grown tired with not having a sense of direction, and any lead, as far as he was concerned, was a good one.

           Not wishing to be spotted along the road, the elf crossed the beaten path the shelter sat beside and into the cover of the forest that continued on its other side. The foliage was thick in this area of the Marches for being so close to the coast, but it should clear in about half a day’s time if he continued south, he reasoned. Then he would be upon the shoreline, and a short distance east would be a dock and ferry that could take him across the waterway to the larger continent. He had incurred a favor from a farmer that claimed friendship with the ferryman and promised that he would put in a word for him.

           The cruel, scheming ways of Tevinter seemed like a completely different world in comparison to the poor and rural attitudes in the Free Marches, Fenris pondered as he trumped through the woods, eyeing berries and roots that he might eat as he traveled. While he was largely distrusted by his appearance and demeanor alone, there always seemed to be someone willing to give him a chance to help if they required assistance. It had earned him food, shelter, company, and information that he would have had great difficulty attaining elsewhere. He crouched down and pulled at a mass of spiked greenery to find plump spuds ripe for eating. After a brief examination, he nodded and packed them to clean them in a stream nearby. Despite knowing he needed to eat, he felt jittery. The prospect of being in a new country in less than a week gave him butterflies, and the possibility of finding someone who actually knows him gave him an emotion akin to jubilation.

           He heard a cry resound through the rough canopy of the forest and spun around, looking for the source of the voice. He armed himself as more muffled hollers followed accompanied by a roar. After locating the direction of the sounds he took off, the bare pads of his feet shuffling leaves, twigs, and debris as he maneuvered out of the way of low hanging branches and foliage. He halted at a line of berry bushes to see a group of elves frantically shooting arrows at a large bear. It was hostile, two wounded melee fighters having already been dragged into underbrush out of the way of the creature.

           Fenris squared his jaw and moved to a space that gave him a better view of the bear, gently placing his pack against a tree. Having learned from experience while roaming the country, and having the advantage of a distraction, he waited for the right opportunity to deal the territorial creature a blow. An authority in the group shouted something in elven to a few melee fighters near the bear and they began to retreat. An archer shot the beast in the neck and it let out a strangled, angry sound in response, rearing up on its back legs to pounce forward onto the melee team and shred them.

           There it is. Fenris’s brands sparked and he disappeared in a haze of blue, flashing forward as he thrust his sword in a wide arc at the legs of the beast. A wet thunk resounded as he made contact, the bear crying out in anguish. He didn’t take the limb off, but it was crippled and no longer able to stand. After a beat, the other melee fighters launched forward at their window of opportunity, the beast stunned by the sudden and painful blow. A few blows near the neck and head later and the creature was finished.

           Fenris sighed, pulling a warn rag from his belt to wipe the blood off of his blade. Phasing didn’t affect him like it used to. At the beginning it would turn his stomach and leave him momentarily disoriented. It wasn’t very helpful in a fight, and Danarius’s compatriots would whisper disapprovingly about a performance no less than perfect, which of course would earn him punishment later that day. After practice and “encouragement” he got a handle on his disappearing act, eventually learning to ignore the greenish tinge around his vision and the feeling of encroaching magic under his skin, like hands trying to make purchase on his insides. He had to admit though, he appreciated the surprised expressions of people witnessing it for the first time.

           This party was no different, resounding in excited banter at their kill. Some of the members approached him, two archers with long braids and a young melee fighter brandishing a curved axe. The two archers were older and complimentary, earnest in their thanks, but reserved. The young one was less tactful, a swirling tattoo around his left eye.

           “That was amazing, how you rushed in like that!” he exclaimed, blood spatter on his tight green-platted armor. “How did you learn to do something like that? Are you a mage?”

           Fenris placed his greatsword back on his back as he answered. “It’s a… ‘talent,’ and I am no mage.”

           The boy shrugged, unperturbed, “Well it was certainly helpful.” He looked over at the bear for a moment and grinned. “You should accompany us for a feast,” he suggested, turning to meet Fenris’s eyes. “This bear is plenty for us, and I’d hate to think where we’d be if you hadn’t shown up.”

           Fenris hesitated, frankly surprised by the lack of reservation the young man showed in inviting a stranger into the clan’s camp. Judging by the looks the archers wore, though, he figured the boy was speaking out of turn, and that his own expectations of the Dalish were not far off. “If you would have me, I would be grateful,” he answered finally, wiping blood from his cheek.

           The warrior cracked into a face-splitting grin before dashing off to the larger group. The archers followed behind him and Fenris joined after retrieving his belongings. The party was returning to the camp to grab more volunteers to help skin and dismantle their kill to carry it back, and though Fenris surmised that this would eat up most of his daylight hours, a full belly and company in exchange for one more day sounded like a fair trade. If they allowed it, of course.

           Much of the group filtered into the camp and Fenris stayed in the back, fairly certain he would be stopped to await approval from within. The axe warrior that invited him fell behind to talk to the guards about Fenris’s presence with the party.

           “If it weren’t for him, we would have many more injured in that attack,” he explained as Fenris came up behind him, the guard casting a weary look in his direction.

           “Go in, _dah’len_. Speak to the keeper,” the guard told him, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her side. “She will determine if he can pass.”

           The young man rushed ahead, leaving Fenris to bare the scrutiny of the watchman as he waited. Fenris crossed his arms over his chest and waited, his cream pauldrons glinting in the sparse light that filtered through the trees. The two remained silent as they waited, glances and murmurs from curious elves within the camp the only activity around them. The birds were more numerous here, he noticed, glancing at a flock of small song birds perched about the halla grove on the opposite end of the camp. He could certainly understand why humans would assume elves to be more attuned with nature, given the look one gets when just glancing around the camp, but Dalish culture proved more suspicious and distrustful than the stories would have them believe.

           A woman approached after a time in green and gold robes, her pale blond hair tied in a long braid that she pulled over her shoulder. She wore a tall, dark staff across her back and an equally dark vallaslin, swirling markings on one half of her face accompanied with an inverted image of the same on the other half. Her pale eyes looked over Fenris with an unhappy expression.

           “I appreciate your help in saving the hunting party, and though you may be one of us I cannot permit you to enter,” she said, looking at Fenris squarely in the eye. Fenris dropped his hands to his sides and adjusted his pack. He wasn’t surprised, he had never been allowed into a Dalish camp before, this time would be no different.

           The young hunter came up beside the keeper to hear her dismissal and frowned, “But keeper, he--!” he began, but the keeper cut him off with a stern look.

           “I know what happened, _lethallin_. We are near _shemlin_ territory, and I cannot risk letting outsiders into the camp until we are completely settled,” she explained, calmly but firmly. There was no room to argue.

           The hunter sighed and gave Fenris an apologetic look, which Fenris acknowledged with a slow nod. The boy was young and still was willing to trust through deeds, something that he would likely be stripped of the longer he lived with the Dalish.

           “I bid you farewell,” the keeper said, bowing slightly and turned, heading behind the hunter back into the depths of the camp. Fenris lingered for a moment, watching them retreat, finally allowing his face to look irritated. The guard bristled, gripping her hilt with her non-dominant hand.

           “You heard her, flat ear, leave,” she grumbled, an unfettered scowl showing on her face. Fenris shot her a look and turned wordlessly to trudge back into the larger forest, pulling his hood back over his bright hair.

           After a few paces he reached into his pack and retrieved the spuds he had acquired before the bear attack, still dirty from being unearthed. He sighed and put them back, resigning himself to clean them when he reached the beach. He pondered the irony that the humans of the Free Marches had been more willing to trust him and offer him services than those who would call him “one of their own” before turning around and calling him “flat ear” in the same breath. Scoffing, he rubbed his forehead and spotted berries that were safe to eat, stopping to pick them and eat as he continued forward.

           A few hours later, the elf emerged from the filtering trees, his peering eyes being hit by the bright reflection of the sun on the wide ocean, blue waves lapping against the brown sand of the coast. He squinted and raised his right hand to shield his vision while his eyes adjusted, the gentle breeze coming off of the ocean a welcome disturbance compared to the stiff air of the forest. After a moment he dropped his hand, allowing himself a moment and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with the salty air, heavier now that he was close to its source. His upper torso strained against his chest guard and chainmail for a moment before he slowly exhaled. He was hours away now. The sun was not yet at midday, and he would be at the shores of Ferelden in a matter of days if all went well.

           He pushed his hood back to better feel the sun, casting his gaze to the east to look down the beach. Just off the horizon he could make out a small dock with boats attached. His heart fluttered at the sight of it. He had hoped that the farmer had not led him astray, but he still had not fully trusted him even as he set out weeks ago to be here. Seeing even some evidence of the man telling him the truth had him feeling both elated at being honest, and disappointed in himself that he didn’t trust the man to begin with.

           Pushing the thought from his mind, he cleaned the spuds he’d acquired in the tide and ate them as he tramped toward the wooden dock on the edge of the horizon, feeling the warm sand between his toes as he worked his way up the beach. As he listened to the gulls call around him, he briefly entertained the idea of living at the edge of a beach somewhere in the future.

           The gulls were louder once he reached the dock, the wood groaning as the tethered boats pulled at their restraints with the tide. The elf tossed the core of the final spud he had eaten into the sea and stepped up onto the sun-baked wood, the dock creaking under his weight. A figure in the water, scraping barnacles off of a large painted boat, turned and looked at Fenris in surprise, his expression changing to weary as he took in the elf’s appearance. He grabbed a hold of the dock and hoisted himself up, water sloshing over the lightened planks. Pulling his hat up to the top of his head, the short man walked forward to address the elf, his dark, wet clothes squelching as he moved. He dried his hands with a dirty rag as he spoke.

           “Can I help you, messere?” he asked, his red mustache clinging to his upper lip.

           “Thomas of Ilderton Farms told me you could take me to Ferelden,” Fenris answered.

           The man’s bushy eyebrows perked up at the familiar name, “Ah! Thomas! He’s a good friend of mine. We go fishing a few times a year in ole’ Hilda here,” he explained, gesturing to the smaller of the two boats attached to the dock. Fenris cast his eyes to the boat for a moment before looking back at the man.

           After a moment of silence the ferryman cleared his throat, “The name’s Marcus, and I can certainly help you across, messere, for a fee.”

           Fenris raised a dark eyebrow and the man began to stammer out an explanation. “I-I mean I don’t take just anyone, and the trip will take a few days, so the money mainly covers food and—."

           “I have sovereigns,” Fenris interrupted, reaching to the pouch on his belt. The man flinched at first, but relaxed when he saw Fenris remove a smaller sack from it, clinking when he plopped it in his other hand to offer. “Will this suffice?”

           Marcus took the pouch tentatively and opened it. His eyes widened when he took in the approximate amount that he was handed. “Ah, y-yes messere, this will do well,” he said, hastily pocketing the gold in his back pocket. “I’ll get everything ready right away.”

           Fenris stepped back on to the beach as the man busied himself preparing the larger boat he had been picking at earlier. The elf leaned against a wooden post and pulled at his hair, letting it fall and be caught in the gentle breeze. He allowed himself another moment, to hope and believe that what he was doing wasn’t fruitless, that he would make it to Ferelden and find Varric. Perhaps he would remember something succinct from his old life rather than flashes of sensation and faces he had no names for. Whether he “gained” that old life back or not, he could at least start anew, and find his own purpose in his own way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onyona for being my editor and fellow DA nerd.
> 
> Comments and criticism are appreciated.

           “Message for you, ser.”

            Varric turned to look at the scout that had addressed him, recognizing him as one of Leliana’s. Sliding away from the table he had been writing at, he stood to address the messenger, adjusting his red coat to fit better on his shoulders now that he was standing.

            “Through one of Leliana’s? That’s unusual,” the dwarf mumbled as he grasped the rolled up parchment and took it.

            After a brief thanks and dismissal, Varric unraveled the letter,

 

                          ‘Serah,

                          An acknowledgement regarding your dossier on an elf warrior. We have located an individual matching your

                          description on the Storm Coast. He has been seen assisting merchant caravans and inquiring after your

                          whereabouts. He has made no signs of departing the area. We will keep watch and will not approach unless

                          instructed otherwise.

                                                                                                                                          -- M. M.’

           

            Varric’s knees wobbled as he took a seat, staring at the words in disbelief. He read them again and once more, trying to wrap his head around what they said. They _found_ Fenris, after all this time? And he was asking about _him_? Why not Hawke? And what was he doing in Ferelden?

            He stopped himself, shaking his head. No, what was he doing? This was fantastic! Wonderful! This was no time to worry about the details. What mattered was that Fenris was alive, free, and he had located him. Now if he could just convince the Herald to go out to the Storm Coast to recruit him, he’ll be set. The dwarf wore a large grin as he looked over the message one more time, rubbing his broad chin as he formulated how to word his inquiry.

            Standing from the stool by his small fire, he made his way through the snow at the Haven camp. The snow fall had lightened a little bit since they set up here over a month ago, but the weather patterns were difficult to notice when there was a gaping green gash in the sky above them. The established Inquisition forces brought together by their council of founders, Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, and the Herald Lavellan, had been steadily taking over the surrounding area as they grew in conscripts. They were starting to draw the attention of powerful people, and he was glad to be a part of it, despite the rather rocky interrogation by the Seeker that brought him here. The Herald seemed to be getting used to her station as the only one that could close the rifts, though she would be dodgy if you asked her that directly.

            After a few minutes he found the red-headed elf at the stables and blacksmith, seeming to have finished a conversation with Blackwall. The bearded warden watched her closely as she walked away from him. Her sea-foam eyes caught Varric’s and she smiled, more like smirked, at him, since her genuine smiles seemed typically reserved for her rare moments of sincerity.

            “Herald,” Varric addressed her, pausing by the stone wall that encompassed the inner sanctum of the camp.

            “Please, Lavellan, or Lothriel, just not Herald,” she corrected him, shaking her head a bit as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the dark branches of her Dalish tattoo contrasting with her pale skin. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were doing it on purpose,” she chastised good-naturedly.

           The writer chuckled, light dancing in his eyes and held up his recently received correspondence, “I have a favor to ask, Lavellan.”

           The Herald crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, adjusting her stance to one with a bit more attitude, the light from her chest plate catching the sun. “Now I _know_ you’re doing it on purpose, you sly dog,” she responded, her smirk growing toothy.

            Varric snickered, shrugging his broad shoulders. “What can I say, I’m just too charming. It’s a curse, really.” They laughed together before continuing to business. “I’ve received some information about someone I’ve been trying to find for a few years now,” he said, gesturing to the parchment in his hand. “A friend of mine went missing some ways back and I’ve gotten a lead that may be him.”

            Lavellan raised her dark eyebrows, “That’s great Varric, but I’m not sure I can use our resources to locate a friend.” Her tone was apologetic, wanting to help. There were already plenty of rumors circulating about her using the forces of the Inquistion inappropriately, or for personal gain, and as little as most of the rumors fazed her, that one made her particularly self-conscious.

            “He can certainly benefit the organization if he agrees to join,” Varric reassured her. “I mean I’m sure we can twist his arm if we have to. Figuratively, anyway. I’m not convinced doing it physically will get us anywhere.” At a cocked eyebrow the dwarf laughed, “He was a very skilled fighter back when I knew him at Kirkwall. From what I gather, that hasn’t changed much.”

            “Kirkwall?” the elf inquired, eyebrows shooting up, wrinkling the complex branches drawn across her forehead. “I assume he wasn’t a mage. Was he in _The Champion_?”

            The dwarf rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the ground momentarily before looking back, “Yeah, but we can discuss that on the way there, okay? My story about him…leaves out a lot of personal details.”

            Lavellan shrugged, easy-going as always. She seemed satisfied with the information she’d been given. “Skilled fighter to recruit sounds good enough to me. There are a few more things we can do at the coast while we’re there as well. I’ll go talk to the council.”

            She grinned and Varric smiled back. “I appreciate it, Lavellan. Thank you,” he said humbly as he rolled up the message with his gloved hands and placed it in his pocket for the time being. He would work on an answer promptly after the meeting, and hoped that they would be out looking for him by tomorrow.

            As the two parted ways, Lavellan sighed. She felt like she didn’t get any rest, not since the Conclave. The Inquisition was a big project, so she was learning to take her moments when she could get them. Despite being a spy for her clan, and thus leaving the confines of her family more often than many of its members, she couldn’t say that being away from them gave her any real joy. Even if they were nomadic, her home was with them and not necessarily where they happened to be camping at that time. She imagined that it would be harder for some of the others to be away for so long, so if anything, she was better equipped to handle this position than much of her clan. Besides, she had met many interesting people so far, the diversity of the organization she spearheaded genuinely astounded her. Humans, elves, dwarves, qunari, all working together for a common cause? Truly only something cataclysmic could be enough to forge an alliance between those cultures.

            The snow crunched beneath her feet as she made her way up the slope towards the chantry, catching sight of Cullen growling at a recruit who seemed to not understand the meaning of a sideways stance. Having to create soldiers out of farm boys and men who had only ever held brooms in their lives was certainly a trying task, and Lavellan did not wish to be in his position. Despite the Commander complaining about it, she knew that a part of him felt pride in those that he honed from fledgling greenhorns to skilled military men. His warm fur mantle made him resemble the lion title he held, emphasizing both his anger and his station as a leader worthy of recognition.

            He turned as Lothriel called him, composing himself for a moment before speaking, “Herald! You surprised me.” He turned to fully face her, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword. “Is there something you need?”

            Lavellan noticed quickly after meeting him that Cullen had gestural tells, and she was slowly beginning to learn them. This one meant he was being official, professional.

            “Yes. I would like to arrange a short trip to the Storm Coast. Could we round everyone up for a briefing?” she asked, smiling.

            Cullen returned a small smile, the scar on his upper lip shifting upwards. “Of course. We’ll meet you at the war table in a few minutes.” He turned and, after relaying directions to a lieutenant, went on his way to collect Leliana and Cassandra. Lavellan continued forward toward the chantry, hoping to grab Josephine on her way to the war room.

            The large doors groaned as she entered, the slight warmth from the burning candles in the temple a welcome change in temperature. She sighed and adjusted her long coat, noticing Varric waiting for her, leaning against a pillar off the main walkway. He smiled sheepishly when he met her eyes, pushing himself to stand. “Figured I could make a case for myself rather than make you do it, if that’s all right.”

            “Certainly,” she answered, gesturing for him to follow her. He fell in step beside her as they crossed the building towards the back room, nodding towards Mother Giselle.

            After Lavellan called on Josephine, who assured her that she would be but a moment, she walked into the war room, allowing Varric to go before her as she closed the door behind them.

           He whistled as he looked over the table, map, and the various markers placed over top of it, marking reconnaissance, completed missions, and ones pending review. “I do not envy you,” he muttered, glancing at the box on the corner of the table filled with more markers.

           “What? A painful, unexplained mark of mysterious magical origin on my hand, the only hope for our salvation from the rifts, and the leader of a huge movement holding both military _and_ political power? What’s there to envy?” she drawled sarcastically, flailing her left hand about as she spoke.

           Varric cast her a withering look as the advisors began to file in behind them, Cassandra included. She stood on the other side of Lavellan, crossing her arms as she glanced over at Varric. The advisors made their way around the table to stand on the opposite side, looking expectantly at the Herald.

            After a time, she spoke. “I believe a short expedition to the Storm Coast would be beneficial before we begin making arrangements in Redcliffe.”

            Cullen barely hid his disapproving frown at the idea of recruiting the mages over the templars before Josephine spoke up. “All right,” she began, pen poised on parchment, “what is our primary objective?”

            “I have received word that there is a warrior that can be recruited to our cause who is currently out on the coast. We also have discussed inquiries about darkspawn activity beginning out on the coast as well, and the wardens don’t seem to be organized enough to respond adequately,” Lavellan explained.

            “Just one warrior for such a trip? We hadn’t decided if we were going to take care of the darkspawn or not, it’s not really our area of expertise.” Cullen responded, cocking an eyebrow. Realizing that he sounded cold, he doubled back, “Not to sound crass, of course.”

            Varric cleared his throat, all eyes turning to him. “The warrior is a friend of mine. I believe that he will not only be beneficial going along with the Herald on expeditions, but he could potentially be able to give us insight on the political shifts in Tevinter that we may not have access to currently.”

            Leliana scoffed, crossing her arms over her chainmail, “You underestimate my abilities, Mr. Tethras.”

            “No offense, of course, Spymaster,” the dwarf drawled, bowing slightly in her direction.

            “For instance, I know who you want to recruit. I agree that he would be handy as a fighter, and potentially to study his unnatural…abilities, as well, if what you describe of him in your book is true,” she said. Varric gave her a hard look as she spoke, “As for his help in terms of politics, I remain quite skeptical.”

            “Book…?” Cullen began, looking from Leliana to Varric quizzically, “ _The Champion of Kirkwall_?”

            The dwarf rolled his shoulders nonchalantly and cocked his head to the side, “Perhaps.”

            Cassandra curled her upper lip at the implication. “Not Hawke, he was a mage. Nor his brother, I would imagine, since he became a Warden and disappeared like the others.”

            “Do you remember Fenris, Curly?” Varric inquired of the Commander. “Broody elf with equally dour armor. Had a chunk out of his shoulder against mages.”

            Cullen thought for a moment, touching his chin, “Yes, I believe I recall him in the Gallows once. With the brands.”

            “The very same!” Varric exclaimed, wagging his pointer finger towards the man briefly.

            “Oh yes, I remember him from your book now.” Josephine chimed in, matching Varric’s confident smile. “I also believe he will be helpful.”

            Lavellan clapped her hands together and looked about the room, Josephine’s candle flickering slightly as she did. “We are in agreement then? Yes?”

            Cassandra and Cullen begrudgingly agreed and Varric was dismissed from the rest of the meeting, something he would certainly not argue with. The rest of the meet involved parsing out resources and deciding on assignments to pursue next. Cassandra insisted on coming along to the coast to check out the new recruit. She didn’t trust Varric’s information or his associates, and Lavellan had little choice but to consent, understanding her position. The Herald decided to inquire after Solas as her last party member.

            “A friend of Varric?” Solas asked, pressing his arms against his sides. He seemed curious, which was good. The promise of learning was the best way to get Solas to do just about anything. “One from his travels, no doubt.”

            “Apparently it’s someone he worked with in Kirkwall. I haven’t read _The Champion of Kirkwall_ , but I feel like I should now.” Lavellan admitted, chuckling.

            Solas hummed. “Neither have I.” He nodded, the sun reflecting dimly from his head as he did. “Yes, I will accompany your expedition. I will be ready when you need me,” he answered.

            Lavellan smiled and nodded back as he turned and walked into one of the buildings behind him, presumably to gather his belongings. She had her team, so it was time for her to get everything ready on her end, though she seemed perpetually packed to leave, so it wouldn't take long.

            In less than a day’s time they were traveling out on the road, expecting to reach the forward camp on time, barring inclement weather and other unforeseeable issues. The group alternated from horse riding to sitting inside the covered wagon which carried supplies for the camps. As they got closer to the Storm Coast, the rain started in earnest, and they voted for being dry as long as they could manage, staying in the wagon for the last day or so of travel.

            “So, how much of your written account of this Fenris is true?” Cassandra asked on the last leg of their trip, having skimmed through his book while they traveled. Solas and Lavellan sat on one side of the wagon, Cassandra and Varric on the other. Varric looked over at the Seeker at his side, taking a quick swig of water from his canteen before answering.

            “He is a runaway slave from a magister named Danarius. Danarius put brands of lyrium in his skin that caused him to lose any memories he had of his life prior to that. He can use the brands to essentially disappear for short distances, one favorite move of his being reaching into people and, well…crushing their hearts in their chest,” he explained, wrinkling his nose at the last bit. He may have seen him do it plenty, but it never got any easier.

            Lavellan looked aghast, with little reaction from Cassandra. The author wouldn’t live up to his reputation if he left out a striking detail like heart crushing.

            “That is uh…very colorful,” Lavellan muttered, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees to listen more intently. “What happened to him?”

            “Well, last I heard, he and Hawke were supposed to meet who he believed to be his sister while we all still lived in Kirkwall, before the Chantry explosion. Hawke told me that he got cold feet on the way to the tavern and booked it,” Varric explained, shaking his head.

            Cassandra’s eyebrows furrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest, obscuring part of the Seeker emblem on her chest guard. “It sounds like a trap. It was probably a good idea to flee.”

            “That’s because it was,” Varric continued, glancing over at Cassandra before the rest of the group. “Apparently, Fenris’s sister had sold him out to Danarius to become a magister.”

            A gasp or two rang out. Solas made no vocal reaction, though his look became more severe at this news of betrayal.

            “That’s terrible!” Lavellan exclaimed, wearing a sad expression. “But, that means he got away?”

            Varric exhaled loudly through his nose before leaning back against the wall of the caravan, crossing his arms over his chest now. “I have no idea. That’s when he disappeared. A few of us tried to track him down or get a lead on his whereabouts, but we didn’t have any luck. This is the first I’ve heard of him in three years.”

            The group was silent for a time, contemplating this new information as well as its grave implications.

            “Do you have any advice for approaching him?” Solas finally asked, breaking the silence.

            Varric glared at Solas. “Shit, Chuckles, he isn’t a wild animal.” He tone was disapproving, but not angry.

            The apostate narrowed his eyes, “Someone who was once a slave will likely be wary around new faces. Despite him seeming to remember you, that does not mean he will take kindly to the rest of us.”

            Varric rubbed his forehead then, closing his eyes. “Don’t pity him, and please try to avoid asking about his thoughts on Tevinter or mages. I’d prefer to not have my reunion devolve into the same bullshit I had to deal with back in Kirkwall.”

            Solas nodded, seemingly satisfied with the information.

            A day later they arrived at the forward camp at the Storm Coast. One of the stationed scouts told Lavellan about a strange elf with white hair that had been seen hunting darkspawn and bandits as well as talking to merchant caravans in the area. He was last seen near the shore by the caves that the Inquisition already had reason to believe darkspawn inhabited. She thanked them for the reconnaissance and the group began to make their way to him.

            Staying in the caravan for the last trip kept them mercifully dry, but the muggy atmosphere and constant rain dashed away their comfort quickly. Lavellan almost wished she had worn her lightest armor so that she didn’t have to deal with soggy layers of clothing, but her scout coat armor would just have to do. The group made their way through the area to the beach and began to make their way up the embankment, passing by a few abandoned Venatori camps that they had cleared before, seemingly not reclaimed yet by the cult. That, or Fenris had taken care of anyone retaking those areas.

            As they made their way south down the beach a group of individuals came into view. A hooded figure in black and green cloth armor, donning a pair of white pauldrons and brandishing a greatsword was coming out of a large swing and righting their momentum as two darkspawn launched at them. They heaved around in a large horizontal arc and thrust the monsters back, knocking them harshly to the ground.

            “That must be him, let’s go!” Cassandra said, the group picking up pace along the sand to try and meet the fray and assist their target.

           With a short yell, the elf thrust his sword through the belly of one darkspawn, the other strafing around with a limp to try and stab at his blind spot. Solas and Varric readied their weapons to hit from range before the figure’s body lit up, glowing blue markings searing through their clothing as they disappeared into a mist of blue, almost instantly reappearing behind the darkspawn with an arm through its chest.

           Lavellan and Cassandra stuttered in their stride. It was one thing to hear about powers you’d never seen anyone wield; it was a whole different thing to see it. Varric heaved his crossbow up, a bolt already loaded and ready as Solas also hesitated, narrowing his eyes at the figure. The warrior basically executed what amounted to a Fade Step, something he thought only mages could do.

           The darkspawn’s cry turned into a throaty gurgle as it died on the elf’s arm. An archer came from some nearby brush and aimed. The warrior turned with the body on his limb to block any incoming arrows only for a solid bolt to whiz past him and bury itself in the creature’s head. The archer stumbled and dropped his bow before falling back, dead.

           “Good to see you again, Broody!” Varric called out, a triumphant smirk on his face as he holstered Bianca. Cassandra resisted rolling her eyes at the dwarf’s attempt at an entrance.

           The warrior dropped the body, the dead weight sliding off of his limb as he turned quickly, wide and alert green eyes looking for the source of the voice. He was hunched over in a fight or flight stance, locks of long, white hair falling in front of his face. His tan skin looked dark under the shadow of his hood, the brands along his chin and neck flickering faintly.

           Once his eyes rested on Varric, he froze, recollection coming to his features after a brief pause. “Varric…?” His voice sounded rough, unsure.

           “I heard you were looking for me,” he replied to the startled elf, the smirk he wore growing into an honest, friendly smile. “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch, at least.”

           Fenris furrowed his eyebrows and glanced at his free hand for a moment, sharp gauntlets dripping with darkspawn blood. “Right…” He straightened up and let his sword hand relax, seemingly at a loss for words. He looked vaguely over the faces accompanying Varric with apprehension.

           “Where are my manners?” Varric said after a beat, trying to break the awkward tension and acclimatize his friend to new company. “This is the famed Herald of Andraste, Lothriel Lavellan,” he began, gesturing to Lavellan who gave him a tired look at the use of her title.

           Cassandra broke in before Varric could speak for her, pressing her right hand to her chest, “You may call me Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.”

           With the wind taken out of his sails, Varric sighed and gestured to Solas, “and this is our resident apostate, Solas.”

           “With no real title worth mentioning,” Solas added, a breath of amusement in his words. Fenris narrowed his eyes as he glanced from Solas’s staff to his face before turning to Varric.

           “The Herald? You’re part of the Inquisition?” he asked as he slowly pulled his sword up to hook securely onto his back.

           “Yes, I can barely believe it myself sometimes,” he muttered, glancing at Cassandra briefly. He pulled his sour expression back to a pleasant one before asking, “So why are you out here killing darkspawn? Did you become a Warden while you were gone?”

           That seemed to relax Fenris a little bit. He straightened his back and pushed the stray, wet locks from his face and back into his hood, his emerald eyes no longer obscured. “No, not exactly. I’ve noticed them coming out of these caves, but I have no way to seal the holes effectively to keep them underground.”

           “Well, wouldn’t you know it? That’s what we’re here for!” Varric replied, gesturing to the group.

           Fenris scoffed, casting an incredulous look over the group. “When did the Inquisition start doing Warden work?” he quipped dryly.

           “Probably since the Wardens seem to have all but disappeared since the last Blight,” Lavellan responded with a shrug. She extended her hand in a friendly gesture then. “Why don’t you join us? We can always use another skilled sword hand.”

           Fenris’s expression softened into something more neutral, his stance relaxing as he looked straight at Lavellan. “If you have need of me, I will accompany you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onyona for being my timely editor. <3
> 
> Comments and criticism are appreciated.

            Fenris could scarcely believe it as he fell in step behind Cassandra with Varric a few paces to his right. He glanced over at the dwarf as if he were still but a figment of his imagination, some doppelganger his brain conjured up from the vague memories he held of the individual. All this time he had been wondering what their meeting would be like, if the dwarf would live up to what the elf had unconsciously concocted to be his personality. Or worse, the possibility that his memories of the dwarf had been false or misconstrued, and that he had in fact never met the man in his entire life but had invented it from the suggestion of others. At least with that fear dissuaded, he could focus on the potential of learning about the years of his life he couldn’t recall. Though he didn’t feel incredibly attuned to the likely possibility that he would need to join the Inquisition to stay with this past acquaintance, he was willing to do it to get his life, his identity, back. Anything for that.

            As the group made their way into the first cave, carefully climbing over the wet rock of the erected, broken thaigs, Varric began to probe Fenris for information.

            “So, what happened a few years ago when you ran off? I’ve been looking for you for a while with no word. It’s like you disappeared off the face of Thedas,” the dwarf inquired. His voice was so familiar that Fenris was sure that he had known him for a long time, and the tones he used for jokes and sincerity where the most familiar, but the gnawing of his empty memories still made him uneasy. Despite the friendliness the man showed him, knowing his familiarity didn’t have a concrete source he could draw from made him feel like he was walking on unstable ground when they interacted.

            Reeling back his melancholy, Fenris processed the question as the group entered the cave, the rain on the outside echoing through the stone cavern as it sheltered them from the onslaught of the wet weather. “I don’t remember,” he grumbled, his disappointment apparent.

            Varric sighed and rubbed his forehead, the answer seeming to disappoint him as well, but there was a weary look in his eye when he looked at the elf this time, suggesting he made an unhappy conclusion. “So you escaped again, I take it? Is he looking for you?”

            So, he knew about Danarius, and his prior enslavement. That was telling, though Fenris really shouldn’t have been surprised. If they’d known each other for years, those basic details would have been revealed fairly quickly upon meeting. This meant that his escape before had lead Danarius to chase him, what, the entire time he had been with Varric? Sending hunters for him for all that time? His brands were more of an investment than even he apparently realized.

            Before he could answer, a shriek echoed against the walls of the thaig, nearly drowning out the thrum of the weather outside. Giant spiders sprang from a sharp corner and a few dropped from above the group as they readied their weapons. Varric was the first to attack, shooting three quick bolts at one that was still descending from the ceiling. Solas tapped the bottom of his staff to the stone floor, causing barrier glyphs to appear under the feet of everyone in the party as Lavellan threw a smoke bomb and disappeared, Cassandra beating a spider with her shield as the Herald flanked.

            Fenris flinched with his sword in hand as the barriers went up, covering his skin in magic. He gritted his teeth and barely contained a hiss as his brands responded involuntarily, gripping the rough hilt of his sword with whitening knuckles. His throat constricted and he found it hard to breathe. _It’s protecting you, it’s not hurting you_ , he told himself, ice whooshing past him to freeze the body of the spider nearest him. He turned his head stiffly to the arachnid, struggling to move in its new frosted skin, an ironic mirror image. _If the mage thinks you need protection, prove you don’t_. With a yell he broke free of his mental paralysis and launched at the creature, shattering it under the weight of his blade.

            The fight was over in well under a minute, no one worse for wear despite the poisonous nature of the overgrown arthropods. Fenris shuddered as the barriers receded, his brands flickering as he tried to rid himself of the suffocating feeling the barrier had brought despite its original intention.

            “Shit…” Lavellan muttered, looking at the gaping hole in the wall near the spiders. A faint breeze was pushing through, the distinct smell of rotting flesh and heat pushing into the thaig. This was absolutely the entrance the darkspawn were using. “Looks like they blasted their way through from the Deep Roads, or they knocked out an already unsteady wall from this cave.”

            “I suppose they are using the ancient thaig sites as entrances,” Cassandra surmised, she along with the rest of the group putting away their weapons. Solas stepped forward and peered around the rubble. Spotting a sizable boulder, he gestured towards it with one hand. The rock levitated off the ground and made its way to the hole, the mage flattening his hand towards the mass as it wedged itself firmly into the space, effectively sealing it. “That should hold them back for a time,” Solas said as he turned back towards the group.

            Fenris was both surprised and irritated at the way magic was affecting him. He had more or less been without any real contact from magic for years, and his cowardly reaction made him feel like a damaged fool.

            “Do you do that at the beginning of every fight?” he asked, his tone more accusatory than he had intended.

            The bald elf turned to meet his gaze, a dubious expression on his face accompanied by narrowed blue eyes. “Cast barriers? Yes, I prefer my companions unharmed.” His eyebrows lowered, “Do you object?”

            Fenris squared his shoulders, trying to fix his expression into something less antagonistic. If he was going to join this organization, he knew he needed to make himself amiable, but he also needed to be…effective in battle. The idea that he wasn’t soured his stomach. “Then I ask that you not include me in your spells. It is…it’s distracting.”

            Solas looked at him for a moment as if he were trying to discern the true meaning behind his words, not convinced by Fenris’s reasoning. After a moment, he answered, “As you wish.”

            Varric sighed audibly, letting out a breath as if he’d been holding it. “Boy I am so glad you aren’t like Blondie, Chuckles.” He said, relief clear on his face as Lavellan and Cassandra situated themselves at the front of the party toward the mouth of the cave.

            “Who?” the two elves asked in unison, startled and casting a glance at one another before fixing their eyes on the author again.

            “Agh,” Varric mumbled, rubbing his forehead again as the group began to move. “Anders, the mage that blew up the chantry. He and Broody would argue constantly, mostly about anything related to mages and templars,” he began, moving his gaze only to Fenris, “Hawke took you two everywhere despite the arguing. I think he thought it was funny.”

            Fenris furrowed his eyebrows as the rogue turned and the mage scoffed, presumably at being compared to a renowned terrorist. He had heard of the chantry explosion while he was back in Minrathous; he never would have anticipated that he knew the man behind it well enough to bicker on a daily basis.

            The elven warrior frowned as the group made their way to the next thaig down the beach, deep in thought. Hawke. That named pulled at something, but he couldn’t discern what. No surprise there, though he was surprised at how heavy the weight of the missing years was beginning to feel. It’s one thing to know that you’ve lost time, but it’s an entirely different feeling to start to hear bits and pieces before it can truly be understood. He squared his jaw as the other thaig came into view, nestled close to the water’s edge. He would learn more the longer he stayed with Varric, there was little reason to get upset about it now.

            Varric cleared his throat after a time, attempting to pick up the line of questioning that he had begun before they were ambushed by spiders. Fenris shook his head as he began, the rogue faltering. They would simply be interrupted again; this was not the time for a conversation like this, despite how much the elf wanted to talk. Another new feeling, wanting to talk.

            “I will talk to you about it when we are finished here,” he promised, the foul wind from the cave causing him to reach for his sword. Varric nodded, hisses and growls of the darkspawn in the cavern becoming clearer.

            After a few hours of killing darkspawn and caging them underground, the group decided to make their way back to camp after the final breach was sealed. As they trekked back through cold rain and cold mud, a green light flashed and crackled from Lavellan’s hand.

            Fenris jumped, looking at her hand with a shocked expression. “What the --?” but before he could finish, a ripping sound to the group’s right had him spinning to locate it. He gawked at the sickly green hole as it opened wide, an expansion of flickering green and incandescence at a depth that was hard for him to look at. His lyrium reflected the sickly color, tugging at him like it was trying to pull him into the expanse and have him swallowed. His stomach lurched as the gash flickered, demons pushing themselves through the tear as if being born.

            He wheeled at the feeling of a hand on his upper arm. His eyes met Varric’s, his stern gaze and set mouth, the grip on his arm, bringing the elf back down to earth. “What is--?” he began before the rogue cut him off.

            “It’s a rift! Two waves,” he yelled over the garbled sounds of the demons as the other three rushed ahead. The rogue withdrew his hand and used it to show two fingers, emphasizing his broken, rushed sentences. “We kill them, she seals it!” He adjusted Bianca and took aim, firing a hard burst shot into a shade that was advancing on Solas. It cried and slumped over, stunned by the blow.

            Fenris nodded and grabbed his sword. Killing he could do. He rushed the shade, disappearing and reappearing in a blue haze, and jabbed the demon in its weakened state. He concentrated on the logistics of the battle as best he could to ignore the intense pull of the rift the closer he got to it, keeping his head in the game. Protect the ranged, assist the melee.

            A green, lithe demon shrieked, bringing Fenris back to the moment. Cassandra rushed it, smashing into its long, spindly limbs as it bore a sharp toothed grimace. Fenris used the opportunity to heave his sword and hit the creature in the opposite direction, throwing it off balance. It shrieked and disappeared into a dark portal that appeared under its feet, causing the elf to stumble at the lost contact.

            “It will come back!” Cassandra cried as she spun and slammed her shield against a shade that crumbled and disappeared, Lavellan appearing behind it as its pieces fluttered up to the rift, making it a fraction smaller than it previously was. The elf gritted his teeth as he registered a green light coming from beneath him, doubling back just in time to miss the demon’s sneak attack. He squared his stance and arched his sword as a cold sensation crept over his skin, the monster freezing in a solid state as he started to swing up. It shattered pleasantly as he made contact, its remains joining the other fallen demons in the rift.

            One more shriek near Solas and the rift flickered brightly, though nothing new came from it. _Two waves_ he remembered, not allowing himself to relax just yet. He barely registered the flickering sigils that disappeared under the feet of his other companions, but not his. The mage kept his word.

            He didn’t expect a Pride demon to materialize from the portal, its weight shaking the ground as it landed. He shook away the perplexed reaction of _why_ he knew what it was and simply settled with the fact that he did, not having the luxury of being distracted. The large demon cackled, electricity crackling and jumping around on its skin as the group took ready stances. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lavellan and Varric shield themselves in smoke. He and Cassandra drew the demon’s attention and attacked it head on, the elf glowing as he heaved his weapon in ways his physique normally wouldn’t allow. He was vaguely aware of ice shards and poison being thrown at the demon from its back and sides as he jumped out of the way of an ethereal electric chain the demon slung at him.

            Eventually the demon fell with only minor damage to the team. It dropped to one knee with a heavy thud as it lot its balance and dissolved into the rift. Lavellan walked toward the tear and thrust her left hand toward it, the green light flickering brightly now. A surge of green energy connected between her palm and the rift, her expression a grimace as her arm thrummed and shook with the strain. Finally she clenched her hand into a fist and pulled her hand back with a jolt, the rift shattering like the demons they slaughtered. The deafening boom of the rift shutting made the thrum of rainfall almost akin to silence.

            “So,” Fenris started after a beat, holstering his weapon after he noticed everyone had already done so. “The Herald of Andraste seals rifts that allow demons to come through the Veil on a regular basis.”

            Lavellan shook her hand as she turned to him, trying to laugh good-naturedly despite an unpleasant look. “Well, more or less, yes.”

            “It’s a wonder they haven’t deified you yet,” he added dryly, an amused sound coming from someone behind him.

            “Give them time,” she grumbled, glancing at her hand before turning back towards the direction they had been previously heading. “Let’s get moving; if we’re lucky we’ll make it there in time for dinner.” Fenris turned and glanced over the horizon towards the faintly straining light of the early evening sun, its light just barely reflecting off of the ocean’s surface. It may have been beautiful had it not been for the near constant rain.

            As they made their way to the forward camp, the muddy and cold state of his feet was starting to feel sickening. Elves who didn’t grow up in cities normally didn’t wear covered shoes, and he was no stranger to them being dirty, but the cold mud that caked his soles for this long was incredibly unpleasant. If wearing boots hadn’t felt so suffocating the few times he had, he might have actually considered it had he known about the weather. So far his time in Ferelden had been similar to the Free Marches, only a lot wetter and colder.

            As Lavellan predicted, they made it to the camp after most of the scouts had finished making dinner. They had seating set up for the away team when they arrived and a few soldiers dolled out food for each member while the team walked over to towels that were ready for them, slightly damp by the humid air. Fenris was eager to dry off, the displeasure of his muddied feet temporarily forgotten. He briefly toweled at his armor before removing much of the outer pieces, including his gloves and gauntlets, pauldrons, and leg guards. After carefully pulling his hair through his upper armor, he stacked all the pieces along with his pack into a corner on a dry tarp and took the towel to himself, shaking his hair out before throwing the towel on his head and walking back to the circle of chairs. He caught a scout who was eyeing him before she busied herself with tending the fire at the edge of the tent. Crooking an eyebrow but thinking nothing of it, he grabbed a seat and took the food that had been placed there. The small group largely ate in silence, the others having shed much of their armor as well and reclined in their seats. It was the first time in a long while that the elven warrior had had spiced meat, and he consumed it hurriedly, if not appreciatively.

            After most had finished, Varric spoke up, “Never expected you to go for the feminine look, Broody.” He wiped down Bianca with a small cloth as he teased the man.

            Fenris donned an incredulous look. “Do you disapprove?” he asked before rising and going over to his pack. He withdrew a large-toothed black comb, a couple of teeth having been snapped off from rutting it through thick hair previously.

            Varric’s voice fluttered in from behind him, “Nah, I just think it clashes with your general demeanor and would make it hard for you to fight, but you do you.”

            Fenris retrieved the utensil and returned to his seat across from Varric, pulling his tangled mane over his shoulder to begin working through it. He should have braided it on the trip here. “No? I figured hair in my face would enhance my general aura of despair,” he joked, a small smile flickering over his face momentarily. He didn’t know what it was, the brief bits of recollection he had acquired of the dwarf in his sleep or that he was happy to finally be around someone _familiar_ , but he found himself relaxed enough to make jokes.

            Varric barked a short laugh. “Good point.”

            Fenris began to work through his hair as he steeled himself for what was to begin before he opened his mouth. “You had questions for me, Varric. I will answer them the best I can.” His eyes swept over the others as they turned their eyes to him and then Varric expectantly.

            “Well,” Varric started, shaking out the rag and putting it along with Bianca in a more secure area before reaching into his well-worn pack and pulling out a tarnished flask. “I know how much you love probing questions, but you’ll forgive me for that, I hope.” He unscrewed the top, the spacer underneath the cap falling and jingling against the canister as he pulled the cap to the side.

            Fenris nodded, starting at the top of his head and working his way down. In all likelihood, he would be the one asking the dwarf questions once he joined the Inquisition. He had no real reason to forego becoming a part of the organization, providing they didn’t serve to use him unscrupulously.

            “How did you escape Danarius this time?” the dwarf finally asked, looking at his friend expectantly.

            Fenris worked at a particular knot as he answered, wiggling and probing around the tangle to untie it. “Danarius got into an argument with Varania. He accused her of regretting betraying me to become his apprentice, and suggested that she and I were conspiring together, to what end I have no idea. She defended herself and cast a spell on me to attempt to get my memories back. He retaliated and killed her before she could finish. While he was distracted, I killed him. I alerted the other slaves before I fled.”

            The rain droning against the tarp overhead was the only sound for those under the tent for a time, the fire throwing long shadows around the group, casting their faces into a contrasting mix of light and dark. The sun had largely set now, making the fire in the camp the main source of light.

            Varric took a drought, looking at his flask as it glinted dimly against the fire light before looking across to his friend. “I guess it didn’t work. Your memories, I mean.”

            “Partially. I remember my childhood enough. Other memories largely come to me in my sleep, mainly those of a city unlike what I’ve seen in Tevinter. I vaguely remember you, for example,” he answered, gesturing to Varric with his comb. “It’s mostly sounds and flashes, sometimes smells. They’re largely too vague to make any real sense.”

            “Well, if any of those smells are largely fish, blood, ale, or a mixture of the three, then the city you’re remembering is Kirkwall,” Varric began with a joke before his tone became more relaxed rather than jovial, “You lived there with Hawke, me, aforementioned Blondie, and a few others for close to six years. You had escaped Danarius about two years before we met you, and you were on the run from the mercenaries and slavers he’d hired to find you.”

            Fenris stopped combing his hair and processed this as Varric took another sip of his mystery liquid. He knew that he had escaped before, having fairly distinct dreams of the Fog Warriors and running that came to him soon after his most recent escape, but he had no idea that that much time had passed. Danarius had been searching for him for nearly a decade before finally enslaving him again. The magister’s possessiveness and paranoia against Varania was starting to fit. Originally he assumed it based strictly on her being “family,” for what little that was worth to her.

            “I see,” he spoke up, continuing his ministrations. “I suppose he found me.”

            “I…suppose he did,” Varric echoed, taking another swig before leaning forward and offering it to the elf. “It’s not wine, but it gives a good buzz regardless.”

            Fenris reached for it, thanking the dwarf with a nod as he gripped it. He took a gentle sip before wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. He had anticipated ale, not brandy. After one more sip he handed it back to the grinning rogue.

            “That was hardly a warning, dwarf,” Fenris chastised as his friend chuckled.

            After a few moments a chair creaked. Everyone turned to see Solas stand, brushing at his shirt front. “I will be taking my leave. It was good to meet you, Fenris,” he said to the elf, bowing slightly with a half-smile, his hand tucked under his chest. Fenris nodded back and the others murmured their farewells before he turned and rushed to the tent line not far away from the open one they sat in, holding the towel he had been given aloft as he did.

            “Rude…” Cassandra grumbled, shaking her head. “Does nothing interest that man outside of his dreams?”

            Fenris cocked an eyebrow at her, confused. Lavellan caught his eye and explained, “Solas’s main area of expertise as a mage is the Fade, which makes him uniquely helpful in regards to the rifts in the sky, and the larger breach in the Frostbacks.”

            “He mentions it all the time, the history he’s seen and…spirits he’s met.” Cassandra extrapolated. “You’d think he’d spent his entire life there the way he talks about it. But I suppose that’s just how he is,” she finished, not really wanting to sound too harsh on the apostate.

            Fenris’s expression turned almost severe. “He is somniari? A Fade-walker?” he asked, alarmed. “That is the most volatile and dangerous kind of mage. Are you quite sure you want him in the Inquisition’s ranks?”

            “Right behind actual abominations, maybe,” Varric said matter-of-factly.

            “Yes, sure,” Fenris begrudgingly acquiesced before turning back to the two women.

            Cassandra looked pointedly at Lavellan who sighed, rubbing at her forehead, pushing the branches on her skin to and fro. “He is incredibly learned, and very stable. I believe his knowledge and experience is pivotal to closing the breach. So yes, I am sure.”

            Fenris sat up straight, realizing that he had directly questioned the actions of a woman that had both political and military power over the organization he had essentially just joined without knowing her for twelve hours. He sighed now, slumping back in his chair and made a motion to Varric with his hand. The dwarf shook his head with a knowing smirk and handed the flask to him.

            “I apologize,” the elf said, pausing to drink briefly and shuddering before handing it back to the dwarf. “I didn’t mean to question your decisions, Herald.”

            Lavellan rattled with a light laugh, looking over at Fenris. “It’s all right, I don’t mind. If people still believe I make mistakes, it means I’m still a person to them.”

            Fenris nodded and, not long after that somber note, they all broke off to their sleeping areas, catching some rest before the long trip back to Haven.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onyona for being my wonderful editor and fellow fan to bounce ideas off of.
> 
> Comments and criticism are encouraged.

    The chair creaked in a familiar way as the branded elf leaned back into it, propping his feet up on the short table in front of him. The rays of the afternoon sun caught his snow white hair in a halo behind him as he gazed at the bottle of wine he held anchored against his knee. He’d been running out of this vintage for some time; he’d have to cut back if he wanted any saved for his upcoming anniversary.  
  
    Anniversary for…? He narrowed his eyes at the dark bottle, his forest-colored eyes slowly tracing the stamp of the winery near the neck. What was that anniversary for, again?  
  
    A hearty laugh from outside caused him to snap his head up, the feathers on his gauntlets brushing against his skin as a gentle breeze blew in from the open window behind him. He leaned over to look outside, but the sun was blinding. It hurt just to glance out of the pane, let alone beyond it.  
  
    Recollection hit him suddenly. His grip tightened on the neck of the aggregio as he realized that he had experienced this before. He was here again, in this dilapidated mansion. He would be sitting here, waiting, and then they would come through the door, the one that owned that laugh, the one whose face he couldn’t ever see. They’d come to see him, to…ask him something?  
  
    Fenris sprang out of his chair as the front door creaked open. He moved through the back room and to the stairs quickly, anticipation rising in his chest and moving his limbs as if the wait for that sound had been years. The bottle lay sideways on the ground, the expensive blend staining the cruddy carpet, forgotten.  
  
    He halted at the top of the dual staircase, staring wide-eyed at the front door, ajar with the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure.  
  
    “Fenris?” they asked, and his name in that voice made his heart constrict painfully, that baritone still with a hint of his accent from the Southern continent.  
  
    He rushed down the broken stairs, avoiding the splinters and holes as if he’d done it a thousand times before. If he tarried, if he lingered, his face would escape him again. He had to see him this time.  
  
    The world began to tilt once he made it half way through the foyer, the figure standing stark still in the doorway, and Fenris realized that he was falling. He reached out, the leathers connecting his gauntlets to his pauldrons stretching against his skin as he grasped at the shadow in the blinding light. He felt as if he were pushing through water, deep and all-encompassing, pulling him down to the floor with little he could do to resist. He opened his mouth as he cascaded to the ground, to call a name, but it died on his lips as he hit the ground. Everything went black.  
  
    Fenris gasped and bolted up right. The wooden panels around him creaked as the sun light streamed in from the open panel in the door in front of him. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, and panic gripped him at the thought of the last few days being nothing but another dream. The turning and creak of the caravan’s wheels and a slight jostle as they made their way over a pebbled embankment quickly ceased his worry.  
  
    Groaning, he pulled his legs to him and rubbed down the length of his face. It was that damned dream again. He had it every now and then, and it was always the same. He still had yet to see the silhouetted figure, and he could barely recall the building he was in after waking, but he knew it was very familiar to him, that he’d been there before.  
  
    “You are finally awake.”  
  
    The elf turned to see Cassandra sitting on the bench across from him, looking to be inspecting her equipment. She held a large iron shield in her lap that had the eye of the Inquisition embossed at the top, forever staring forward.  
  
    He nodded as he pulled his legs around, placing his feet firmly on the floor. “Where are the others?” he asked, grabbing for his pack to fish out a canteen.  
  
    “Riding on horseback,” she answered, squinting at a rather noticeable gash on the shield. She didn’t seem worried about it affecting the integrity of its use. She continued with a distracted voice, “We should be back at Haven in a matter of hours.”  
  
    His heart beat quickened at the idea. It would mean new faces, adjustments, introductions, and questions, all things that he didn’t particularly care for. He arched his back and stretched, his arms extended over his head and his toes curling. Cassandra glanced up but returned to her inspection quickly.  
  
    Throughout their trip Fenris had been occasionally asking questions about the organization, its motives, and their progress since its inception not too long ago. He knew little, mainly hearing from travelers about the fabled Herald and her exaggerated origins and powers and only bits and pieces about the organization itself. He’d heard the Herald had been antagonized by templars at Orlais with the Order abandoning the church soon afterward. Beyond that, there were few specifics he could pick up, ignoring the unlikely idea that the rumors were at all reliable. He’d heard about the Conclave and the ensuing deconstruction of both the Circles and the Order, but had witnessed little of it from his brief time on the northern beaches of the country. To his dismay, however, he learned that Lavellan’s ideas of equality extended more towards assisting the mages rather than those that served as their keepers. He was feeling more and more uneasy about what directly lie ahead in his future, and the potential of being surrounded by mages with little authority.  
  
    “Between rebelling mages and rogue Templars, she chose the most dangerous option,” Fenris said, more to himself than Cassandra. He shook his head in disbelief before raising the canteen to his lips.  
  
    “I agree with you,” the warrior told him, her Nevarran accent heavy on her r’s and u’s, “but I will not second guess her. Her logic is sound: use mages to seal a breach made of magic.”  
  
    Fenris sighed and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I suppose, though in my experience, using magic to fix a magical problem never ends well.”  
  
    By early afternoon they had reached the settlement. The winter weather was something he was ill-prepared for, drawing his hood over his head being his only real means of fighting the bitter temperature. His feet crunched into the snow and he shuddered, watching as the others trudged through the stuff unperturbed. The somniari was bare foot just as he was, his soles likely warmed by magic. Fenris frowned, envious of magical abilities for a rare moment before pulling his pack higher against his shoulders and following after them.  
  
    Not a moment after walking into the settlement were curious glances thrown his way. He imagined new people showed up daily to join the effort, but that none of them quite looked like him. Not only that, but most of them hadn’t seen anyone that looked like him before, if not all of them. He avoided eye contact until he heard Varric’s voice, the merchant dwarf beckoning over his friend with a gloved hand and an eager smile.  
  
    “Let me introduce you,” he suggested, gesturing down a pathway further towards the chantry.  
  
    The elf nodded. It was better to get this over with now than to put it off, after all.  
  
    The introductions and chit-chat took hours, much to Fenris’s surprise. The talkative and social man dragged the elf all over the compound. He was nearly overwhelmed by the number of faces, almost certain that he would forget their names in due time unless he met any of them on a regular basis. The longest conversations Varric held were with people he said were recruited personally by Lavellan, or otherwise would depart with her to complete assignments or travel. Among those were a city elf with uneven blonde hair and a thick-lipped smirk who rattled off slang that devolved much of her speech into near gibberish, a stand-offish grey warden with an impressive beard, the Grand Enchanter of the now defunct Orlesian Circles donning impeccable fashion as expected, and a Ben-Hassrath heading a company of misfit mercenaries who had given himself a name. If anything, he’d remember their faces if not their names.  
  
    Cassandra walked by the two and took Fenris to meet the advisors that made decisions for the Inquisition, if only so they could get a look at the recruit they had authorized. Despite Varric telling him that he had met the Commander in Kirkwall, Fenris didn’t recognize him, but the other man made no fuss about it. The other woman, the Antivan, was very pleasant and all smiles, and he could practically feel the air of politics that informed her gestures. She was warmer than the Grand Enchanter, at least.  
  
    When Lavellan arrived and gingerly dismissed him so that she and her counsel could take a meeting, the whirlwind of faces finally abated. He stood beside an elaborate candelabrum as the group disappeared behind a door in the back room and allowed his shoulders to sag. He needed to be alone for a little while. They had assigned him housing in one of the spare buildings near the apothecary and he decided to make his way there to put away his things.

    It was getting dark now, the torches already lit along with the walkway and buildings, and a constant murmur of mixed voices rising from the tavern, its windows lit and flickering as bodies moved to and fro. The tavern felt comforting, at least; a haven for social activity and camaraderie that would be necessary in tumultuous times like these, and it also felt personally comforting for Fenris. He’d had dreams of laughing in a tavern and playing cards, and now that he had met Varric, he was quite sure that those were memories that he had built back in Kirkwall. He had scarcely been traveling a week with the dwarf and already he felt more assured than he had in a long time.  
  
    After finding the room and placing his pack down, he changed out of his armor and into a long-sleeved black shirt. He noticed a fur-lined coat hung in the corner of the room and snatched it, in that moment deciding to stroll outside the compound to sit near the lake he had noticed when he first exited the caravan earlier that day. He fastened the garment across his chest and torso before heading out, pulling the hood up to shield his ears as he weaved through the walkways. Passing by the tavern, through the gates, and into the snow, his bare toes and heels still exposed from lack of proper footwear, he noticed what looked like a rocky ridge that hung over the frozen water. He trudged through the frosted grass for a time before coming over to it, sitting down on to the rock and gazing out over the imperfect surface. The pine trees rustled with the wind behind him. Despite that sound, the wilderness was blissfully quiet, save sounds from the settlement if one strained to hear them. Noticing a green flicker over the ice, he raised his head to finally get a good look at the hole in the sky.  
  
    The Breach was monstrous, a swirling cyclone of green clouds with a line of smokey energy cascading down from the bright window to the Fade towards the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It thrummed in a rhythm like a beacon, drawing magic, demons, and spirits alike towards the door between worlds. He could feel the pulse of the thing under his skin, like it was alive. He looked at the lines on his palm, gentle snowflakes beginning to cascade and dance hurriedly about. There was a faint green hue in the lyrium under his skin as it reflected the magic of the rift. He scrunched up his nose. Being so attuned and tethered to magic, he hated it. Danarius had used his brands many times to draw mana, a process that felt unbearable more often than not. The magister treated him as a magical receptacle, like a drought of lyrium, more than…well…it was no different from how he was treated in any other way by his former master.  
  
    His stomach rolled and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his nails into his palm as he tried to will away the images, the sensations. It’s over now, don’t think about it. It doesn’t matter anymore, just relax. He forced his muscles in his shoulders to loosen as he let out an unsteady breath, distancing himself from the unpleasant memories and concentrated on the environment around him instead, grounding himself.  
  
    He perked up after a moment, feeling an aura from the tree line behind him. A mage. Away from all the bodies and excitement it was much easier to sense those with magical abilities. He turned his head slightly to his left, facing an ear straight back behind him to listen for movement. He peered at the forest, wondering if the aura was from a friend or an enemy. He was unarmed, it could be a problem if they were being infiltrated by mages.  
  
    After a moment the elven apostate emerged, his hands clasped loosely behind him. He wore a beige, collared shirt that draped down in front and behind him, green layered leggings and a dark low necklace that Fenris couldn’t identify from this distance. His stride was lithe and careful, and somewhat different than before.  
  
    “Fascinating,” he said once he was closer, looking down at Fenris with a curious look. “I did not realize that your brands allowed you to sense me.”  
  
    Fenris peered at the necklace now and realized that it was part of a jawbone, likely from some sort of canine. It was dark and looked mummified, ancient.  
  
    “Indeed,” he answered, meeting the man’s inquisitive eyes. All at once the aura was muted, almost impossible to pick up under the waves emanating from the Breach. Fenris narrowed his eyes as Solas’s expression slipped into impassivity.  
  
    “I shall keep that in mind,” he remarked simply, his eyes glancing up at the dots on Fenris’s forehead. “And the Breach?”  
  
    “What about it?”  
  
    “Can you sense it as well?”  
  
    Fenris broke eye contact to look back at the rift. The expanse of the Black City was much wider than the smaller rift on the Storm Coast, and the pull towards the floating heavens was much stronger. He felt like he was being tugged while consciously aware that he was not physically moving, though his brands felt like loose ribbons billowing in a strong breeze. It felt uncomfortable, similar to an out-of-body experience.  
  
    “Yes,” he finally answered, looking down at the icy expanse of the frozen lake. Solas simply hummed thoughtfully, standing at Fenris’s side, though slightly behind him. They stayed like that in silence for a time before Solas shuffled, his feet moving across snow to make his way around the lake. Fenris turned his head as he crossed behind him to make his way towards the community.  
  
    “I will leave you to your own company. I have taken enough of your time,” he said in farewell.  
  
    Fenris watched the mage begin to walk away. The breach split apart the Veil, making even those with no magical abilities or any connection to the Fade be able to see the expanse of its skies. It looked uncomfortable, unwelcoming, and disconcerting; why would he rather be in a place like that? What would make someone prefer being in a dream where there was danger around every corner, demons wanting to take your body as their own, than be around real people, in the real world?  
  
    “Somniari,” Fenris called out, not sure what possessed him to do so. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say or ask. If Haven was to be his new home, he would be forced to fight and eat alongside this mage. Understanding his motivations might…help?  
  
    Solas stopped, his torso straightening slightly. He turned his head to better hear Fenris, but could not see him.  
  
    “It would seem that the others have been talking,” he presumed, turning more so his blue eyes could meet Fenris’s green ones. His expression was guarded now, cool, though his tone remained impassive as it had before. He waited for Fenris to continue, expectant.  
  
    Fenris hesitated, aware that once again he was being needlessly confrontational. He ignored his curiosity and decided on a question of less import. “What were you doing out here?”  
  
    Solas’s expression remained unchanged. “If you must know, I had been dreaming.”  
  
    “In the cold forest, when you have a bed and shelter,” Fenris added flatly, dubious.  
  
    “And here you are, sitting by a frozen lake. Do you not also have a bed and shelter?” Solas answered, gesturing with his head towards the solid water. He was nearly accusatory in tone.  
  
    Fenris frowned and pulled his gaze away, declining to answer the rhetorical question. His stare bored into the thick ice as the snow dissipated, the voices from Haven floating and muffled from the walls beyond the lake and its banks. There was solitude here, no matter how remote, that the wooded walls paled in comparison to. Out here…he could chose to be alone if he needed to.  
  
    The light crunch of feet against snow signaled Solas’s movement again as he picked up his earlier route of making his way back to the settlement.

  
    “ _Dar'eth shiral_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onyona is a great editor but sometimes I'm really impatient. xD

            Soon after their arrival, Lavellan left Haven once more with a small band at her side to visit the First Enchanter in Redcliffe. Unfortunately, she took Varric with her, leaving Fenris to anxiously wait for his return. While they were away, the elf decided to try to fall into a routine at his new lodgings. Generally avoiding the company of others, he wandered around the infrastructure of the settlement, watched the new recruits train to hone their basic martial skills, sat out on the outcrop overlooking the lake, trained in solitude, and read. Although he still avoided perusing his copy of _The Champion_ , he found a few books in the Chantry that were inclined towards historical or religious ponderings that caught his attention. Most of his idle reading was taken up learning about the South beyond what he’d heard from the jealous sneers of the magisters through Brother Genetivi’s accounts.

            People tended to not bother him, his broodish and antagonistic demeanor causing most to leave him in his solitude. Even on the few times he visited the Tavern to drink or eat, he largely occupied a corner with his back to it, leaving many to glance toward him once and avoid him entirely. Well, for the most part.

            “Yer name’s Fenris, innit?”

            Her vernacular was unmistakable. Fenris looked from his book up to the blonde elf. Sera color coordinated in reds and yellows, much like Varric, and donned an inquisitive smirk. He cocked an eyebrow in reply and she slumped hard into the wooden seat at the end of his table, making a loud thump.

            “It’s nice to have another elf that i’n’t so elfy,” she carried on, wrinkling her nose and twiddled her fingers. She seemed unperturbed by his silence as well as her disruption, content with talking at him.

            Fenris’s eyebrow relaxed though he maintained a confused expression. “Elfy?”

            Sera grimaced and gestured in loose waves as she replied. “Y’know, ‘The injustice from the shems! Preserve the old ways! Drop ‘em for the empire!’ That kinda thing,” she demonstrated, taking on a peculiar and low, raspy accent as she mocked the standard mindset of the Dalish.

            Fenris snickered despite himself. The only other “city elves” he had largely met were slaves from Tevinter, and most of them had largely given up on the stories of the glory of the Elven empire. To most of them, particularly the ones that were born in and grew up in Tevinter, it was a page in a history book that had long since closed, and any meaning that it may have had for them in terms of race had been stripped away, along with their hope and dignity. Their masters were largely what mattered, and the populace was overwhelmingly against them, especially if they showed pride in their heritage, The Dalish looked down on them for abandoning their “heritage” and ignored the reasons why. After hearing all their lives about how the magisters of old had crushed Amaranthine, how could they hold pride despite their servitude?

            “Yeah, you get it!” Sera said at his chuckle, grinning with wide eyes. “The other elves just go on and on about it, it’s just so boring!”

            “The city elves in Ferelden are like the Dalish?” Fenris asked, collecting himself. Certainly “the others” wouldn’t refer just to Solas and the Herald.

            Sera rolled her big blue eyes in disgust and leaned lazily onto the table, Fenris moving his glass out of the way so she didn’t knock it over. “They pray to their fakes and dance around the big tree and cry about it all the same. Most don’t think the Dalish exist, i’n’t that a laugh?” She turned her head to look at him, rolling her eyes in mockery now.

            Fenris balked. How did the city elves believe the Dalish were legends? Where they really that contained and ignorant of the outside world? How did they know anything about elven history at all, if that was the case? Perhaps he was underestimating the strength of word-of-mouth, or overestimating the freedom on knowledge in Ferelden.

            “The Dalish might as well not exist to Tevinter, as ineffectual as they are for helping any of its slaves,” he responded with a bit of a growl, looking off to the side as he lifted his cup to his lips.

            Sera frowned at him for a moment before sitting up. “Most slaves follow the Qun up there, right? Som’thin’ like that I guess?”

            A dark eyebrow went up again as the elf replaced his drink back on the table. “Some slaves, sure, if they want to go from one form of servitude straight into another. Most follow no moral code other than what their masters deign necessary. Those who do take up the Qun usually only do it so that some Qunari or viddathari will rescue them.” He wedged a corner over in the book and closed it, setting it to the side so that he was giving Sera his full attention. “Other converts leave because it gives them a purpose outside of doing their master’s bidding, but they ignore the fact that they’re just supplanting one form of servitude for another.”

            Sera scrunched her nose and gave him a look. She was lost. Fenris sighed, “It’s hard to explain. Suffice to say that the Qun is a belief system that governs your entire life: who you are, what you are, and what you do are all ordained by the Qun. If you show any signs of losing the mindset they want, they recondition you.” Fenris pointed to his head to emphasize the last point and the girl reacted accordingly, shocked and disturbed.

            Huffing, the elven girl threw her arms on to the table and angled them up at the elbow, anchoring her head up with her hands. “This is gloomy, let’s do something fun.”

            Fenris twitched, wanting to reach for his book to shield himself from whatever she was thinking. “Fun?”

            Sera giggled, her teeth glinting against the sun light coming in from outside. “What? You tryin’a tell me you never do anything for fun?”

            With a slightly petulant tone, Fenris frowned and grabbed his book, “I typically don’t have the luxury.”

            Mirroring his frown, the blonde cast him a disapproving look as he ran his finger over the pages to find the one he’d dog-eared earlier. “Well you do now, right?”

            Fenris pulled one side of his mouth back in a thoughtful expression. He’d been wondering around for two years with nothing but time to spend on getting what was necessary to live. He rarely had time for anything back then other than what was necessary, right? It certainly felt that way. Was it any different now?

            “Do I?” he posited, causing the rogue to huff again, exasperated.

            “Fine, be a broody butt,” she told him as she moved to get up, snickering and repeating, “broody butt” as she made a move to leave.

            The other elf rolled his eyes, the white of his eyes bright in contrast to his skin and irises. Considering her involvement with the Red Jennies, it was a wonder that she ever had free time to do anything she considered “fun” which, according to most at Haven, was pulling pranks on people. He had no real desire to be a part of that. Pushing his cup back to its original position, he opened the book and went back to reading.

            After about one chapter, Fenris noticed shuffles and the din of excited voices filtering in from outside. Those in the tavern began to stir and filter outside to look for the source of the excitement. He closed the book and placed it on the table, content that if it was taken, he could simply look in the chantry for another one, and easily stepped into the small throng of people moving to glance outside. Cullen and Josephine were at the double doors to the chantry, holding them open for Lavellan as her party made their way into the chantry behind her. Hmm, odd. Last time they broke off pretty much as soon as they arrived.

Fenris pushed away from the Tavern and made his way to the wooden fencing surrounding the innermost part of Haven. He jumped up the stone wall and peered over it to see if there was an army of new mages coming to help seal the breach.

            All that met him was the usual quiet of the mountains and, thankfully, no influx of hundreds of rebel mages. Then again, did that mean that their mission was a failure? He spotted a form making their way up from the front at a healthy pace with a scout tailing behind them. He wore a beige tunic with a multitude of broaches and buckles, one shoulder bare and a close cut, styled haircut. Suspicious, Fenris dropped from the fence and leapt over the path behind him to duck towards the back entrance of a building. He pressed his lips together and listened as the pair bustled through the merchant stands.

            “Ser, please, we have just arrived back from—,” the scout pleaded.

            “I am keenly aware that they have just arrived, my good man. Why do you think I came so promptly?” came the other man’s voice in response, a laughing amusement coloring his tone.

            Fenris froze, ceasing breath for a moment. A Tevinter. No. Why would someone from that blasted country be down here? The breach affected all of Thedas, sure, but they didn’t care if it meant that Ferelden would be largely torn apart in its wake.

            “Please, you can’t just interrupt the council,” the scout continued against the blunt wall that was the Tevinter.

            “They need my expertise,” he retorted, exasperated. “If they are to remove Alexius from Redcliffe then they will need my help.”

            Fenris moved towards the chantry entrance, catching the last exchange before the doors to the chantry were opened once again and he pushed through. The elf jumped when he heard an irritated huff behind him and spun around to get a face full of broad, grey muscle.

            Iron Bull was eyeing the chantry with disapproval, crossing his burly arms over his equally burly chest. He glanced down and made eye contact with Fenris. Remembering that Iron Bull had been on the away team, Fenris inquired.

            “What’s going on?”

            Iron Bull sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “The stupid mage leader put herself and all of her mages under Tevinter ‘protection.’ Now the Herald has a mind to get rid of the magister that they’re indentured to and he,” he paused to thrust his horns at where the Tevinter disappeared, “said he’d help us.”

            Fenris groaned and smacked his forehead. Working with a Tevinter to take down another Tevinter. He might as well be back in Minrathous.

            “Yeah, that’s what _I_ said,” Bull responded, mirroring the elf’s frustrated demeanor. “Apparently, Alexius can control time magic, also. So, maybe it’s a good thing she wants to get involved,” he added, his tone indicating that he found the entire thing tiresome.

            Fenris shook his head. Magic that manipulated time itself? What they hell were they doing in Tevinter? Stupid question, they dove into magic research and experimentation heads first. He was proof of that.

            Not allowing himself to think too hard about it, he sighed loudly and looked back at the chantry to hear voices from within. “What’s his connection to all of this?” the elf asked, turning to the Ben Hassrath and gesturing again to the doors that were still open.

            “Apparently he studied with Alexius, so he can stop the magic or something,” the qunari replied, shrugging, the leather strap across his chest creaking as it stretched. “It’s all really fishy, but what she says goes. If anything, he seems genuine.”

            Wonderful. Amazing. Fenris ran a hand through his loose hair, finished asking questions he didn’t like any of the answers to. Why she didn’t abandon this folly was obvious: the time magic was a serious problem. Leaving the mages in the hands of a Tevinter with that unique of a power and going to conscript the Templars was a terrible idea, and her only option was dealing with it, or else Tevinter got stronger.

            Waving at Iron Bull as he turned to go back to the tavern and bury himself back in Genetivi’s ramblings, he took at least some solace with the idea that the Tevinter wouldn’t be here long, and that he would undoubtedly be left out of this away trip, due to her consideration for his history if nothing else.

 

***

 

            “You want me to what?!”

            The commotion in the tavern died down for a brief moment before going back to its standard volume. Lavellan didn’t flinch despite the other elf’s angry tone. Fenris gripped his cup as he tried to calm his breathing, but made no effort to mask his expression. The Herald looked tired, and not really excited to deal with anything, let alone telling Fenris this bit of news. It’s unlikely that he would change her mind in any way, but it didn’t hurt to at least try and make it clear what exactly she was suggesting.

            “You understand that you’re asking me, a former Tevinter slave, to go into the midst of a Tevinter cult with you, _with the assistance of another Tevinter_ _mage_ \--” he started but was cut off by Lavellan raising her hand.

            “I know what I’m asking of you,” she responded, calmly, “And that’s exactly why I want you to come along.”

            Fenris narrowed his eyes but stayed quiet. Lavellan continued, “Dorian seems honest and is the best chance we have at killing this before it gets any worse. However, I don’t trust him _because_ of how involved he is. If anything goes awry, I think your knowledge of Tevinter is our best chance of getting out of there. I can only go in with a small team, but I need you there with me.”

            He cast his eyes away now, glaring at his cup as he scratched a nail against the imperfect glaze. Was this an order or a request? He joined an organization, did he not? Did that make any requests given to him simply a formality, hiding an order underneath, or were they honest suggestions that he had the freedom to refuse?

            Lavellan sighed and rubbed at one of her eyes, sitting up in the chair. “You don’t have to, Fenris. I’m not your commanding officer, and you aren’t my subordinate. I just figured you wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to kill more ‘vints.” She smirked at the last bit, putting her hand down and smiling at him.

            “Bull his rubbing off on you,” he muttered, pulling his gaze up to meet hers. Her hair caught the glow of candle light behind her, catching her red hair in a light that made her look as if she were set ablaze. Most would look at her and see nothing but the Herald of Andraste, a symbol for a movement, and a leader for a cause. It didn’t take him long to see that she was a person underneath that title, and one that was tired but constantly pushing forward despite her reservations and personal ideologies. It made him cast doubt on all the fabled heroes he’d ever heard of and made him wonder if they were all just ordinary people, too.

            He rubbed his nose and took his drink in hand, breaking eye contact. “I will accompany you.”

            Her turquoise eyes widened, her mouth pulling into an “o” shape for a moment before breaking into a toothy grin, her wide mouth showing off both rows of teeth. “Really?!”

            “When do we leave?”

            “Very soon,” she said, the excitement and relief evident in her voice. Her posture was looser now, all her tension released with his acceptance. “Thank you, Fenris,” she reached out and touched his hand that was lying on the table.

            He flinched and she withdrew quickly, her gleeful smile vanished. “Oh, I’m so—“

            “I’m sorry, it’s fine,” he apologized quickly, clenching his hand into a quick fist to relieve the adrenaline going through him. He looked at her concerned expression before pulling his eyes away, deciding to look at his cup instead, trying to hide his embarrassment as his own weakness. “I’m…touch isn’t—“

            “I understand,” she said soothingly with a small nod and a smile. There was sympathy there in her eyes, not pity, and that made him feel both relieved and anxious all at once. She jumped up from her seat, the moment gone as she donned her tell-tale smirk. “See you at the gate in an hour?”

            He nodded and she smiled before leaving the tavern. He looked at his hand in distaste for a moment before polishing off his watery ale and leaving to gather his things and suit up for the trip.

 

***

 

            As they made their way through the gates of Redcliffe, the Veil was growing thinner and uncomfortable. It scratched, rigid at Fenris and made him feel irritated as they moved, like sandpaper grinding on the underside of his skin. Only magisters could manipulate magic to the point that it felt awful just to be near it.

            Lavellan pushed through the wide doors of Redcliffe castle, meeting two masked venatori bodyguards donning white and brown uniforms. Solas stood to her left flank and Fenris to her right as he eyed them wearily. He was always sure, paranoid that any and all Tevene mages knew who he was though he knew that it was a foolhardy notion. Danarius wasn’t the most popular magister in the country, though to hear it talk you couldn’t be thought poorly of to think so, and Fenris wasn’t necessarily going to be remembered by everyone who saw him despite his unique appearance. He clenched his jaw and stood straight, attempting to look as calm as possible, though the tension he felt in his limbs was a signal that he was convincing no one.

            A blonde Ferelden approached Lavellan as she demanded to be announced.

            “The magister’s invitation was for Mistress Lavellan alone. The others must wait here,” he said, his voice’s sure tone not reaching his eyes.

            Fenris glanced to Lavellan who simply frowned. “They're my negotiators,” she quipped in a lilting tone, clearly showing no signs of respect to the issue at hand. He liked that, though feared it could only lead them all into trouble.

            Hesitantly, the blonde nodded and allowed them to proceed. The bodyguards turned to flank them as they walked towards the throne. Fenris’s eyes were constantly moving, getting a head count of all the fighters in the area in case they need to escape. Two behind, there were others, hiding. Only a fool would allow a meeting with a powerful party and not bring back up. Likely they were hidden in the shadows or in the rafters.

            He halted behind Lavellan and looked to the throne, seeing Alexius and a younger man in yellow beside him. He had been told that they were part of the venatori cult that had started to move in on Ferelden soil as of late, and that the man beside Alexius was his son and was working with them as well. Alexius rose slowly from the seat as the blonde introduced them, and smiled as amiably as he could. Fenris resisted a scowl at the stupid pomp and circumstance they were putting on. Their outfits were strange, the pointed flaps on the sides of their hoods almost resembling elf ears. The irony was almost too much.

            “My friend! It’s so good to see you again,” Alexius spoke up, grinning and gesturing at Lavellan, whose guarded expression didn’t change. His eyes swept from Solas to Fenris as he continued, “And your associates…” he hesitated when he laid eyes on Fenris, just for a breath, before finishing his statement, “…of course.”

            He knew, undoubtedly. That means that he knew Danarius was dead, and that he had killed him. Fenris rolled his neck in an effort to distract himself and keep the wicked smirk from crossing his lips. He couldn’t help but feel some pride in that.

            Alexius sat back down and continued, asking Lavellan what the Inquisition was to exchange for the mages under his care. Lavellan crooked an eyebrow and shifted her weight to one side. “I’d much rather discuss that time magic of yours,” she retorted.

            Alexius poker-faced well, claiming ignorance before his son spoke up from his side.

            “She knows everything, father.”

            “Felix, what have you done?” the magister asked, appalled and disapproving, but not furious or outraged. Not yet.

            Surprising Fenris, Lavellan responded honestly, “Felix is concerned about you and what you’re involved in.”

            Alexius scoffed, having none of the sympathy the Herald was offering. “So says the thief!” He stood from his throne and paced toward them, making no move to leave his stage area. “You think you can turn my own son against me? You walk into my stronghold with your mark, something you’ve stolen and don’t even understand, and think that you are in control?” He shook his head with a grimace. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

            So the Venatori had to do with the conclave. No shock there, really. The muscles in Fenris’s shoulders began to tense as the meeting clearly was going south, a bit faster than he originally imagined. The last thing he wanted to be was near a magister that needed mana.

            Lavellan inquired about her mark and he answered in a fanatical response about it being a gift and unworthy of her from ‘The Elder One.’ Goody.

            Felix, his face falling, walked toward his father and appealed to him. “Listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?” He was clearly distressed and after the best interest of his father, which made Fenris falter for a moment. Not all Tevinters are wicked, like not all Fereldens are idiots, but it was still surprising for him to see exceptions to the former. Especially in the company of a magister.

            Dorian appeared now from the line of pillars lining either side of the main hall, making his entrance. “He sounds like the sort of villainous cliché that everyone expects us to be.”

            Fenris turned to the mage before looking back at Alexius. At least he was self-aware, unlike this fool.

            Alexius answered with more fanatical responses, recognizing Dorian and unable to accept that he would work against him and the might of Tevinter. He continued to do so in response to Lavellan asking about the time magic again, and Fenris was largely blocking him out now. His legs were tense, his arms feeling rigid with adrenaline with every slight movement creaking through his bones. The magister clearly couldn’t be reasoned with; they simply needed to kill him and get out.

            As they continued to try to appeal to Alexius’s morality, he noticed the Venatori guards dropping around him, silently sinking to their knees and to their faces. The spies. Their spy master’s forces were doing well, and Alexius was none the wiser as he turned away from his son who was urging him to go back home.

            “No, Felix, it’s the only way I can save you,” Alexius responded quietly. That caught Fenris’s attention as he pulled his gaze towards father and son. “The Elder One promised. If I just undo the mistake at the temple…”

            Fenris scowled. He was using time magic, indenturing mages, and working for some other being to save his _son_? Nevermind that he himself had no familial ties, that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

            Felix disapproved, having accepted the fate of his sickness, but his father wouldn’t have it.

            “Venatori, attack them! The Elder One wants this woman alive!” he shouted, only to be met by pained grunts and thuds that echoed against the hall chamber as his men fell one by one, being replaced with Inquisition scouts.

            The magister, now no longer in control, took a step back as he realized his predicament. He had nowhere to run.

            “Your men are dead, Alexius,” Lavellan said with a confident smirk, gesturing around them.

            Alexius sneered and raised his hand, the gauntlets beginning to shimmer with magic as a pendant rose slowly into the air. “You are a mistake!” he hissed, glaring at Lavellan. “You should never have existed!”

            Fenris grabbed at the hilt of his sword as Dorian exclaimed, throwing a disruptive spell at Alexius. The magister was knocked off balance, but it was too late. A bright green swirling flare erupted, blinding them, with a loud boom filling his ears. After a moment, he recovered and looked to see a large burn on the floor, the magic scarring the stone forever. His heart thrust into his throat when he saw no trace of Dorian nor Lavellan.

            “No…!” came Solas’s voice from his side as he took in the sight before them.

            Fenris was frozen, terrified. This magister had killed them both with one spell, and it was just he and the somniari to face him down. They couldn’t win, there was no way. The others were gone, and he was hundreds of miles away from Haven. From Varric. He couldn’t run, escape, he needed to—

            A feral growl ripped through him as he locked eyes with Alexius, his brands glowing bright as he tapped into the mana inside him. He grasped the hilt of his sword and took a ready stance, about to fade step straight into the mage despite how incredibly stupid that was strategically. No magister would take him back, they would _never_ use him again, even if that meant he had to die fighting.

            “I’ve already killed one magister,” Fenris rumbled, his rough voice primal with anger, determination, and his desire to be _free_. “What’s one more?”


	6. Chapter 6

            Lothriel shuddered as she and Dorian made their way through the, well, she supposed it would still be called Redcliffe Castle despite it sprouting red lyrium from its very walls and swarming with Venatori soldiers. From what they could gather, they had been thrust forward about a year into the future, a future that had been greatly affected by her absence. The place was eerie, flakes of…something climbing up around them as the magic of the place weaved throughout the corridors of the estate.

            The air felt wrong in her lungs as she and her new Tevinter ally took down a pair of Venatori mages before passing through the wooden door into the prisons. She had very little sense for magic, most of what she could feel from the veil stemming from the mark on her hand, so feeling the wrongness of the atmosphere in her lungs was a terrifying notion for her. This entire situation was a terrifying notion for her.

            “Maybe we can find someone here,” she said, more to herself to break the silence than anything, water leaking from the ground into the dank prison block. The stench of wet stone and refuse was strong down here, and it nearly made her gag.

            “Perhaps, but part of me hopes that we don’t,” Dorian responded, Lavellan agreeing with him internally. She both hoped and prayed her companions weren’t here. She had found their armor and weapons stashed away on her way to the block, but still hoped for their escape. After seeing what had happened to Fiona, her lower half having turned _into_ red lyrium from those cultists growing it out of her body, she desperately clung to the idea of their escape, sparing them the same terrible fate. She remembered that Fenris already had lyrium in his skin…and with the red lyrium… She shuddered, pushing the idea from her mind as she and Dorian picked through the cells, most of them empty.

            In response to her opening one of the doors down a hallway, she heard a voice.

            “Is someone there?”

            Her heart thrust itself into her stomach. It was Solas. Oh Mythal, no, please let him be all right, as all right as he can possibly be in this godsforsaken place.

            She picked up her pace and looked through the cells until she found the one that was occupied. Solas was standing facing away from her, small red flickers slowly coming off of his body, the corruption actually visible on his physical form, but no crystalline structures coming from him. She couldn’t contain her gasp and Solas turned, his pupils backed by a red gleam that Fiona had also had when she held her gaze a few minutes earlier.

            The elf started, almost losing his footing as he recognized the faces in front of him, flicking between Dorian and Lavellan.

            His disbelieving shock left his expression as soon as it appeared. “No, this is not possible,” he declared shaking his head slowly as he righted himself. His eyebrows drew down, “We saw you _die!_ ”

            The Herald shook her head, concern and sorrow evident on her face. She moved to unlock his cell door as Dorian explained the situation.

           “We are alive and well, in fact. Alexius displaced us in time, causing us to wind up in the future. We have just arrived, as it were,” the altus told their imprisoned friend.

            The metal lock clicked and opened, Lothriel pulling back to give Solas room to move. He hesitated for a moment before walking into the hallway, looking at them both. His expression shifted to one of determination.

            “You can reverse the process then? You can go back and obviate the events of the last year?” his voice belied his hopeful anticipation despite his strained expression.

            “If we can get to Alexius, presuming he still has the amulet from before, yes, I believe we can,” Dorian answered, assured, much more so than Lothriel whose brave face was barely perched enough to cover up her anxiety.

           The Herald sighed, her desperate need to joke and make the situation lighter, even if it was only surface level, had briefly overcome her worry. “I’m glad you understood all that, Solas, because I’m still not sure I get any of this.” Lavellan pulled her pack off and began to give him his things that she had found, the things he’d worn just a few moments ago, or a year ago? Ugh! It was getting to be too much.

            Solas turned to her as he fixed his collar and began to shrug on the armor. “You would believe such knowledge would prevent me from making such abhorrent mistakes, but sadly, that is not the case.” Before Lavellan could ask, he continued, leaving that train of thought behind. “Alexius serves a master, The Elder One. He and the Venatori assassinated Empress Celene and used a demon army to invade the South. The chaos in Orlais allowed them that opportunity. Since then they have spread across Thedas, and many have fallen in the wake of their army. You seek Alexius, but he is but one obstacle in a barrage.”

            Lavellan sighed as Solas looked at the scepter she handed him before adjusting it in his grip and meeting her gaze.

            “We can’t do this without you, Solas,” she told him with earnest.

            His expression softened for a moment before it was replaced by the same determined look, anger and regret in the back of his eyes. To see a familiar expression just for an instant only made its replacement feel more foreign to her. “If it is required to make sure none of these events come to pass, my life is yours.”

            Lavellan nodded firmly before glancing at Dorian, putting her pack over her shoulders again. The mage rubbed at his shoulder, having carried his staff as well as Fenris’s blade along with them, the two lying over one another against his back awkwardly.

            “Would you happen to know where Fenris is? So far we’ve only managed to find you and Fiona in the castle,” Lavellan asked, looking back at Solas.

            A peculiar look crossed his face before Solas detached his gaze from the both of them, looking at his staff before affixing it to his back. “You need not burden yourself with the extra weight. It is useless.”

            Dorian’s eyebrows knitted, “Pardon?”

            Solas’s look was hard, meeting his gaze. “He is not here. He will not be able to use them.”

            Lothriel gasped, her hope overcoming her sense as she blurted, “He escaped, then?”

            Solas uttered a short laugh, a mirthless hollow sound. She nearly shuddered at the way it rang against the stone walls, mixing with the strange vibrations that the red lyrium created in his voice, it was enough to set her teeth on edge. It was nothing like the laugh he had when she first met him. It was disturbing.

            He rolled his neck to ease the immense tension in his shoulders as he quelled his laughter, the pain never leaving his features. “No, Fenris is…" he took a breath, "He is dead."

            She did shudder that time, her fear coming to reality. He had told her he didn’t want to come. He’d protested, and look at what happened? His fate was on her hands.

            She looked up as Dorian touched her shoulder, shaking his head slightly.

            “We should not tarry,” Solas announced quickly, the hard line of his brow back on his face. “Let us make our way to the magister.”

            After shedding Fenris’s items, they continued onward towards the hall, coming across chambers that appeared to be used for torture and rituals. Straightening her stance and pressing onward, Lavellan did her best not to glance at any of the open rooms. After a moment she could barely make out voices in one of the corner rooms. A man’s voice, sounding threatening, then a woman’s…Leliana?!

            Drawing her twin daggers, Lothriel opened the door to see a tortured Leliana being held up in chains and a Tevinter soldier holding a blade in his hand. He was withdrawing from her.

            “I will die first,” Leliana seethed, before looking at Lothriel and the others. The guard turned and righted himself, attempting to attack the group before Leliana hoisted her legs around his neck. The guard struggled to no avail, the spy master snapping his neck with her legs and feet. HIs body fell to the ground in a heap.

            “You’re alive,” she said, breathless, as Lothriel sprinted to her, quickly undoing the chains that held up her body. Leliana’s feet touched the ground, unsteady at first.

            “That was very impressive,” Lothriel admitted, looking down at the dead guard on the ground before looking back to the face of her spymaster. Time, torture, and corruption had withered her once beautiful face into one that better resembled a living corpse. She did not appear to be infected as Solas and Fiona had, but she had seen other kinds of brutality here.

            “Anger is a much better weapon than fear and pain,” the woman responded, rolling out her shoulders to ease the soreness from being held aloft. “Do you have weapons?” she asked, scanning their faces. Once she received nods, she turned and investigated a chest to equip herself.

            “You…aren’t curious how we got here?” Dorian asked, surprised.

            “No.”

            Dorian attempted to continue regardless, explaining briefly the events that they had already recounted to Solas.

            “Enough!” she cut him off as she stood, a short bow and quiver now strapped to her back. “This is all just pretend to you; just some future that you hope never comes to pass. We _all_ lived it; we all suffered.” Her face was hard now, like Solas’s. “Everything that happened here is real whether you want to believe it or not.”

            A moment later and they continued onward, pushing towards the hallway. Lothriel gripped her unsheathed daggers, needing to hold on to something to stay better grounded. Believing this was all a dream was much easier than facing it as reality. If they could fix it, it would be like it never happened, but she would remember it. Dorian would remember. What would happen to her remaining companions when she left them? Surely she couldn’t take them with her. She would…be forced to abandon them here.

            “Solas?”

            At Dorian’s voice, Lothriel stopped and turned back. The apostate stood in the doorway of a chamber, staring wordlessly into it. With caution, she moved towards him. Was the red lyrium affecting him?

            “Solas?” she echoed.

            He did not answer. Instead, he turned and moved into the room. Lavellan crowded to the doorway and looked inside. There were arcane sigils painting the walls, meticulously crafted, but marred with old blood stains. Solas walked to the center where more chains hung from the ceiling, similar to that of the room they found Leliana in, but there was a large crystal of red lyrium growing from the ceiling, and something shimmering on the dangling cuffs. He knelt near the center and picked something up into his hand, something small that Lavellan couldn’t make out. His shoulders started to shudder and Lavellan grew doubly concerned.

            “What is--?” Lothriel started but Dorian grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. A beat later and the room erupted in flames, a green barrier the only measure to protect the rest of the party from the flurry of heat.

            “Solas!” the Herald shouted, clutching her daggers to her chest. Had he sprung a trap? What was going on!?

            A second later and the fire dissipated, along with the barrier. The flames swirled into a fixed point on the room, as if they were sucked into a vacuum, and disappeared. Solas stood, unharmed, the walls and fixings in the room now charred beyond recognition. He no longer was holding whatever it was he had picked up, and his expression was dead, distant.

            “Let us move on,” he finally said, walking out to the hallway and heading towards the main hall. The others stayed silent and caught up with him, bursting through the door to a large group of Venatori.

            Once the fight was over, they found various notes with brief explanations on the crumbling infrastructure of the organization on the bodies of their enemies. The doorway to the throne room had been sealed with a strange magical door, seeming to be able to be opened by various red lyrium shards, one of which was on a mage that they had recently killed in that entry hall. They decided to make their way through much of the rest of the castle that was accessible, tracking down the other keys in order to get to Alexius.

            The castle was in various states of disrepair throughout the halls, many outer walls cracking and damaged to expose the insides to the weather outside, if they weren’t filled in by growing lyrium masses. Upon finding the first arcane mage, Lothriel snuck up behind him and stabbed him in the back, the others attacking the soldiers that were standing in the same room with them. Upon killing the other soldiers, the mage tried to rise, apparently not dead, but Solas stalked over to him, grabbed his head and broke his neck. Lothriel was afraid to inquire, but Solas had changed dramatically, and not in the same way as Leliana. She wanted to know what happened, but decency and her vain attempts to keep as detached from this world as possible were holding her back from further inquiries.

            At one point they entered a courtyard area to get to one of the last remaining mages, and Lothriel stopped. The entire sky was a green, swirling mass of energy and the Fade. The wind was near constant, and the foulness of the air was much stronger than before.

            “Th-the sky…” she stammered dumbly, unable to form any words past that to express the terror she felt.

            “The breach has covered all of it,” Dorian added, with an equal amount of shock. The crackling of a rift broke them from their trance and pushed the group into action once more, slaying demons and wraiths as if they had never left their time, or as if they had always been a team even with the Herald’s absence. Even if Leliana had not gone on any scouting missions with them, she had still been a part of a four man team with the Hero of Ferelden, and knew how to operate in similar situations. It was the only thing that gave Lothriel any real comfort here, fighting alongside her companions. She would need to cherish this when she returned, lest she lose this.

            Upon entering the room with the last mage, Solas went straight for him, thrusting his staff to the ground and freezing him in ice. “We will deal with him in a moment,” he announced.

            Nodding, the others attacked and decimated the remaining soldiers in the room, the enemy screaming their occult garbage as they were slain one by one. After finding no key on the soldiers, the group turned to the mage, who was thawing rapidly now.

            His staff clattering to the ground, Solas gestured as he flounced aggressively towards the venatori, his magic rippling over him as the other man shrieked in Tevene. The elf’s stride was animalistic, angry, and terrifying. The mage, whose hood had fallen from his head, grimaced and thrust his hands to use magic, but Solas gestured to the side, throwing up a barrier that absorbed the ice before throwing the frozen mass to his left, smashing a wooden pew.

            The red waves coming off him seemed to grow heavier as he lurched, taking the venatori by the collar, staring into him with a look that Lavellan was glad she could not see given the reaction that came from the man’s victim.

            “What do you want, _rattus_?” the venatori hissed, his feet skidding across the floor at his attempts to scramble and get out of the elf’s clutches. “The Elder One will kill you all!” he suddenly cried, though his fear only made his declaration sound like a plea rather than a threat. “You will never succe--!”

            He was interrupted by a piercing shriek, his own, as Solas clenched his other hand into a fist, parts of the other mage beginning to frost on the outside. Lothriel was confused, but Dorian was not, revulsion contorting his features.

            “Maker’s breath, Solas, please! Just end him!” he exclaimed.

            Leliana looked from one mage to the other, her gaze fixed on Solas as the venatori continued to shriek, his throat beginning to gurgle. “I agree. We do not have time for this,” she said with mild disapproval.

            Solas glanced back at her, then to the tortured mage before taking the man’s head in his hands and snapping his neck, as he did with the others.

            “You are wasting your mana,” Leliana chided him, Solas dropping the dead man to the ground with a strange hard _clunk_. He still had not said a word as he moved away from the dead man.

            Lothriel moved over to the body, curiosity overcoming her as the apostate moved away. She pushed at the man with her foot. His robes gave slightly then stopped in a hard line. She gasped. Solas had been freezing him from the inside out.

            She tore her gaze away to the apostate, no longer able to keep herself from asking, “What in the Void was that about?!”

            “They are lucky we do not have more time,” was all he said, stooping to pick up his staff, the focus marred slightly from connecting with hard stone. “Take the key so we can get to Alexius.”

            Lavellan huffed, but obeyed, taking the last shard of red lyrium in her gloved hands and handing it to Solas. He was the safest person to carry the objects, as he was already infected, and risking herself or Dorian to such exposure was reckless. They were already surrounded by it in the castle, they did not need to push their luck further.

            He turned and took it from her, not meeting her gaze, but his eyes looked different. There was less pain in them now, and a calmer line to the edge of his eyes. Whatever happened, killing the mages seemed to give him some sort of peace, at least.

            They retraced their steps and, after pushing the shards into the slots on the door, made their way into the throne room where Alexius stood, facing the burning hearth with his son on his knees at his side, staring with an empty expression.

            Without turning around, Alexius spoke up. “I did not know when or where it would be, nor that it would be now, but I knew. I knew I had not gotten rid of you. And here you stand.”

            “Was it worth it?” Dorian asked, his sarcasm marred by his shacking rage. “Everything that you’ve done?”

            “I have tried many times to change it, to go back,” Alexius answered, shaking his head, then turning to face them. He was largely unmarred, physically unaffected by the world that he helped create. “All we can do is wait for the end. The Elder One comes for us all.”

            “No,” Lavellan protested, all humor gone from her now. She was tired of this place, tired of him, of seeing everything destroyed. This was a nightmare she _could_ wake up from. “I will fix everything that you’ve done, and I will prevent this from happening.” Her seafoam eyes gleamed with determination.

            “All that I have fought for…betrayed… All for what?” Alexius muttered, looking back at the fire now as if Lavellan hadn’t said anything. “Ruin and death, that is all that I have to show for my efforts. There is nothing to be done but to wait for punishment.”

            Leliana appeared behind Felix now, hoisting him up by his collar and thrusting a knife over his throat. The boy was mostly dead weight, the darkspawn taint having long took him and magic being the only thing that keeps his body from expiring. Alexius turned, fear now in his face as he pleaded to the spymaster. “No, Felix! Please, I’ll do anything you ask, just leave my boy with me!”

            Dorian gasped. “What have you done to him, Alexius?!”

            The ex-bard scowled, not allowing Alexius to answer the question from his peer. “I want the world back,” she answered the magister before dragging her knife across Felix’s throat.

            Alexius roared and thrust Leliana back with a blast of magic, beginning their battle. It was hard won, Alexius managing to teleport around the room as he summoned rifts to beat down on the team. Eventually his magical reserves ran out, and when his protective barrier finally dropped, they slew him.

            Dorian stood over him once it was done, a sad look on his face.

            “Once he was a man to whom I compared all others,” he admitted when Lavellan came up to his side to check on him. A despondent smirk graced his features, curling his mustache up. “Sad, isn’t it?”

            Lothriel shook her head, sheathing her daggers now that their main target had been defeated. “No, he was a different man then. The Alexius in our time might still be reasoned with. Hold on to that.”

            Dorian simply nodded and searched on Alexius’s person, retrieving the amulet that likely sent them here.

            He hummed as he straightened his posture, turning the jade cube in his hand. “I believe this is the focus he and I made back in Minrathous, that’s good.” He turned to include the others in the conversation, who were waiting expectantly. “If you give me an hour, I should be able to send us back.”

            Leliana balked, “An _hour_!? We do not have that much time. You must go now!”

            The ground shook then, as if to emphasize her words, a piercing roar resounding in some far off distance. It sent a chill down Lothriel’s spine as she imagined that this was a sound her companions were now very familiar with. Was this The Elder One? Had he found them already?

            Solas shook his head and grimaced, rubbing his forehead. His jawbone necklace swung and glinted as he moved, catching Lavellan’s eye. She made a face. Did he have it when they found him in the cell? Had he always been wearing it? She could’ve sworn he hadn’t.

            His voice broke her train of thought. “I will hold them off as long as I can.”

            “What?” she nearly shrieked. “No! I will not let you commit suicide, Solas! Nor you, Leliana!”

            The spymaster almost smirked, gesturing between herself and Solas. “Look at us, Herald. We are already dead.”

            The elf faltered, knowing deep down that her former council member was right. It was ridiculous to think that she could save these incarnations of her friends. All she could do was prevent this from ever taking place.

            Solas caught her gaze now, his face stern, even courageous. He looked resilient, an authoritative edge to him that she had not seen previously from neither him nor his present counterpart.

            “You must save your world, _lethallan_ ,” he told her, using an intimate elven label to refer to her. Equals. Peers. Would present Solas ever refer to her that way? “Make sure this never happens to him, to any of us.”

            And it struck her, like a bolt of realization to a lightning rod. Fenris. All his anger, burning the room, torturing the mages they found, his resistance to elaborating further. It was all for…Fenris?

            “Go, cast your spell,” Leliana spoke up, breaking Lothriel out of her epiphany. “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

            “And I draw breath,” Solas added before taking a sweeping glance between everyone’s faces. He and Leliana exchanged a nod before turning and walking towards the doors. Solas closed them behind him as Leliana took position half way between the doors and the podium.

            Dorian set to work immediately, swirling magic and twisting the veil around the amulet as a focus to create the portal. Lavellan waited anxiously, hearing screeches begin outside as the fighting started. She pressed her finger tips to her lips and crossed the other arm over her middle, desperately trying not to fidget or imagine Solas against a horde of demons outside, fighting all by himself.

            It felt like no time until the doors burst open, terrors, wraiths, and a pride demon coming through towards Leliana. The demon carried Solas in its hand. Lavellan gasped and tried to look away. It shrieked as the apostate cast something, his aura becoming a mass of red energy that all but consumed his form. She could see glowing red eyes through the haze and a battle cry as the demon’s hand holding him became…petrified?

            Leliana had begun reciting the Chant of Light before the doors even opened, muttering to herself as she threw arrow after arrow in strategic points at each demon that advanced towards her, blocking out everything but the battle.

            The pride demon holding Solas reached over with its other hand, silencing Solas for good.

            “No!” Lavellan cried, but Dorian caught her arm, the pendant still swirling in his hand.

            “If you move, we all die!” he shouted, and the Herald stayed in place obediently, watching helplessly as a blur of what was once Solas fell to the ground by the demon. Leliana was soon out of arrows, and began using her bow and knives as weapons before she became surrounded.

            Dorian took Lavellan’s hand. She jumped and turned to the Tevinter, who now stood in front of a green portal, swirling like the one that had opened back in Redcliffe, in their time, the one that brought them here to this awful place.

            “Let us go, quickly!” Dorian exclaimed, pulling her towards the portal.

            With one last sorrowful glance backwards, Lavellan saw Leliana become overwhelmed completely. The elf inhaled quickly and jumped through the wall of magic, Dorian following in right behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This is where we come to a crossroads. There is a side story I have written that begins proper at the end of Chapter 5, but mostly people will likely prefer to read Chapter 6 to get framing before starting it. You can either continue to read Klexos until the most updated chapter and come back to EV, but I _highly_ recommend putting Klexos on ice for a time and going to read the side story as it is written in a way that you can jump right back to Chapter 7 of the main story and pick it back up. If you would like to begin, click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5789479/chapters/13343356).
> 
> Thanks to Onyona my editor, as always.


	7. Chapter 7

            As soon as Fenris slid his foot back to leap towards Alexius, another strong crackle of magic resounded. Everyone in the room stilled as a green portal opened to Alexius’s right, the magister looking at it in abject horror as he stumbled backwards past the throne behind him. A flash and boom later, Lavellan and Dorian were standing not far from the surprised magister, looking relatively no worse for wear.

            Solas and Fenris stared for a moment, stunned to silence at the reappearance of their companions. _The time magic…_ Fenris thought, suddenly understanding, to an extent, what had transpired. Alexius must have made them go somewhere, but how did they come back…? The warrior shuddered, waves wracking his form in an effort to loosen his tight muscles back to a state of composure as he ignored the sparks of pain jumping along his skin. When he drew his attention back to the people before him, Alexius was on his knees in despondence as his son squatted in front of him, comforting him.

            The marching of soldiers resounded throughout the hall as knights donning furs and steel made their way in formation to line the entry hall. The two elves fell back towards Lavellan as the large doors swung open, Fiona joining the group near the throne. A blonde woman with a displeased expression entered behind the guards, accompanied by a man looking more morose than she, but both were clearly unhappy about the proceedings.

            “Grand Enchanter,” the man announced, putting his hands behind his back and knitting his eyebrows to make himself look more angry. “We’d like to discuss your abuse of our hospitality, especially considering that Redcliffe is under the protection of Arl Teagan.”

            Fiona’s eyes widened as she meekly drew closer to the two, Lavellan not too far behind. Two Inquisition scouts approached Alexius and removed him from the premises with Felix in tow.

            “King Alistair, Queen Anora,” Fiona addressed them, her voice a mixture of reverence and anxiety at their appearance.

            The queen joined in after her husband, “When we gave the mages sanctuary here in Redcliffe, we did not give them the right to drive our people from their homes.” She was decidedly sterner and less sympathetic than the man beside her.

            “Y-your majesties, “ Fiona began, wringing her hands in front of her with her head partially bowed towards them, “I assure you, I never intended…”

            Something about the sight of a groveling elf to two humans made Fenris frown, even if she was absolutely the one in the wrong. The context of the situation was understandable, but even so…

            “Despite your good intentions, they do not excuse the consequences of your actions,” the queen retorted, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head.

            The king stepped in now, moving towards Fiona with an authoritative and aggressive stance. “You and your mages have worn out your welcome here. I suggest you leave Ferelden, or we will make you leave.”

            Lavellan stepped up, seeing her opportunity as Fiona protested, albeit gingerly.

            “We did come for mages to close the breach, Grand Enchanter,” Lavellan reminded her, gesturing to herself, tapping the pointed metal chest plate that she wore, the Inquisition symbol inscribed in the gleaming iron.

            Fiona glanced at her wearily, “And how will the Inquisition make use of us?” She had a right to be worried, considering her folly with her previous alignment.

            “The Inquisition will make better use of these mages as our allies,” Solas suggested, all eyes turning to him. “Their situation should not be taken for granted.”

            Lavellan’s eyes turned from Solas to Fenris expectantly. Fenris froze, not anticipating her seeking his council on such an important and monumental decision. She trusted his judgment enough to hear his opinion, and that was…flattering. There was something else in her gaze as she looked at them, but he could not discern its meaning.

            He fidgeted before crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one side. The mages should not be free to run around the camp at their whim, Haven would find abominations within the first 24 hours. They shouldn’t be kept without watch, it was too dangerous to risk.

            “Conscript them into our services. We can insure their safety as well as our own,” he voiced, Fiona bringing her arms to her chest as if to protect herself from his words.

            Solas turned to Fenris, a mixture of disgust and shock on his face, the fire light from the hearth behind them etching his features in high contrast. “If we conscript them, how are we any better than Tevinter?” he hissed, gesturing in a short arc around them.

            Fenris scowled, but Dorian answered for him. “Surely any situation under the Inquisition for these mages is better than indentured servitude under a magister,” he said, looking at Lavellan to help dissuade the dissonance between the other two elves.

            “Exactly,” Fenris echoed, a bit surprised to be agreeing with someone from the same country he demonized. He met Solas’s irritated expression for a moment before turning back to look at Lavellan.

            The rogue thought for a moment before turning to make eye contact with the royal couple, then Fiona. “We would be honored to have the mages fight at our side,” she announced, her voice full authority and confidence.

            Fenris huffed loudly through his nose, his nostrils flaring. He didn’t take her rejection personally, but still considered this to be a less than practical choice, one that they may later regret if things get out of hand. He glanced over at Solas who made no outward reaction. Fenris put his arms down to his sides, relieved that the somniari had the decency not to gloat about it.

            “I pray that all of the Inquisition honors your decision as well,” Fiona replied with skepticism, glancing quickly at Fenris before looking at Lavellan again.

            The Herald shook her head, “The Breach threatens everyone. We cannot afford to be divided over this, and we will not be.”

            “I would take that offer, if I were you,” the king suggested, looking at Fiona squarely.

            “You will be leaving Ferelden one way or another,” the queen chimed in.

            Fiona sighed quietly, “You have us, Herald of Andraste. We will help you close the breach in Haven. It would be madness not to.”

            Lavellan nodded, and with that, Fiona left to round up the apostates roaming the Hinterlands. Lavellan worked with her scouts to arrange as many caravans and vehicles as possible to get the mages safely and securely to the Frostbacks.

            Within a few hours, with no more business in the Hinterlands and an itch to get back and close the breach, the group headed back to the caravan they arrived in and began to trek back to the mountains. Once they were on the road, Lavellan sagged against the wall, the authoritative mask of the Herald falling away as she finally let herself start to think about what happened. Dorian sat beside her, content to wait with them for a time and patted Lavellan on the shoulder.

            “What did Alexius do to you two? You were gone for just a moment before appearing again.” Fenris asked, shifting in his seat a few feet from Solas.

            Lavellan rubbed at the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. Dorian cleared his throat and met Fenris’s inquisitive gaze. “Alexius threw us forward in time by about a year. It was… There was red lyrium everywhere, the sky had been taken over by the breach, Alexius’s ‘Elder One’ had killed Empress Celene and taken over most of Thedas with a demon army.”

            Fenris’s eyebrows rose, trying to take all this information in. So, they _had_ gone somewhere in time. To the future? And they had witnessed what was to become of them if…if what? If they hadn’t come back? Could all of that still happen? Was that their inevitable fate? Could they change it?

            The elf crossed his arms over his chest once more and slumped back against the side of the wagon, not content with any of this new information or the questions they brought up.

            “Not a very pretty sight, to be sure,” Dorian quipped before looking back at Lavellan.

            “We can use what you have learned,” Solas pitched, steepling his fingers and leaning forward to rest his lips against them. “If we know Celene is under threat of assassination, we can interfere. The solution to rid The Elder One of his demon army is decidedly obtuse, however.”

            Lavellan smiled to herself, a small expression, though it was no less odd. “You’re right, Solas.” She looked up, her eyes flicking between the two elves across from her before she heaved a sigh. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go lie down,” she announced, standing in the wagon and making her way to a back corner to rest. The men nodded and let her go without a word.

            Back at Haven, Lothriel went straight to her council as per usual. The rebel mages were still about a day and a half’s march from them and wouldn’t be arriving for a while. The Commander was decidedly unhappy about the turn of events, particularly allowing the mages on as allies, but his complaints were soon staunched by the others.

            Much to Fenris’s chagrin, the Tevinter stayed as well. He and Lothriel had been through something extraordinary, and though the mage claimed he remained because he “adored” the South, Fenris was quite sure that he had ulterior motives for staying besides enjoying the Herald’s companionship and the cold mountains of Ferelden. On their trip back, he had gleaned that the Tevinter was no magister, but an altus, making him within the ranks to become one. Fleeing from his homeland when a seat in the most politically powerful organization in the country was basically waiting for him baffled the former slave, but he had little reason to care about the man’s reasoning, only that his company was stifled by his overinflated ego and his sense of superiority. To top it all off, he was assigned to stay in the cabin across from his, and he normally was either in the Chantry generally avoiding Vivienne and the glares of the sisters, or rutting about near the apothecary’s office.

            “It matters not.”

            Fenris broke out of his reverie, turning from the altus standing out in the snow chuckling with Sera to the apostate before him. Living near two mages made him uncomfortable, despite Solas’s seeming desire to keep him at a comfortable distance. He still refrained from casting barriers around him in battle, but his smug sense of self rivaled that of the Tevinter at times.

            “What she saw does not matter?” Fenris deadpanned, meeting the mage’s gaze with an incredulous tone.

            Solas clasped his hands behind his back and regarded him for a moment, his expression stern. “No. We have enough information from her experience. To bury further would only cause her unneeded distress.”

            Fenris was frankly surprised. Of all of the people that Lavellan considered “companions,” the dreamer was the most quizzical. The fact that he did not wish to know information that was just a question or two away was very odd and he wasn’t sure what to make of his reluctance. His excuse for not wanting to upset her to gain it seemed weak, coming from him.

            “To interrogate her, yes, but simply asking does no harm,” Fenris replied, getting a feeling that this conversation would make more sense if their roles were reversed. “Her side-glances do not…unnerve you? Surely you’ve noticed.”

            Solas simply shrugged. “Ask her, if you must. I harbor no desire to learn of a bleak future that shall not come to pass. We have learned what we need to.”

            Fenris gave him a hard look. His assumption was elementary. You can’t know what information you need and what you don’t until you know all of it and consider it in retrospect. He knew the elf understood this, he had to. What was he avoiding?

            “Broody!”

            Fenris stopped his reply and turned to see Varric walking up the path towards them. He nodded to the dwarf as the author made his way to the pair of them.

            “Lavellan is in the tavern talking about what happened. I know you two were there, and figured I’d come and let you know in case you wanted to add your two cents,” he said with a slightly apologetic grin, knowing he’d interrupted a conversation. That was generous, since Lavellan tended to exaggerate for humor’s sake about as much as Varric did. Considering the trip was particularly painful for her, no doubt less than half of what she’ll say when under a large audience will be honest.

            Still, his timing was impeccable. Fenris glanced back at Solas who shook his head. The answer was unsurprising. He turned to Varric and nodded, the dwarf responding in kind before turning back towards the tavern.

            “ _Lasan venas ahn esayalas_ ,” Solas said as Fenris turned to leave.

            “I do not speak the language of the People,” Fenris responded, turning just enough so his voice could carry over his shoulder. This marked the second time he had used Elven to speak to him.

            Solas quirked an eyebrow with a smirk for a moment before he pushed it back down. “Sometimes…well,” he paused, his hands loosening from behind his back to hang at his sides, “elves can sometimes feel the rhythm of the language despite lacking the vocabulary to understand it.”

            That…made little sense. It was Fenris’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. He glanced at Varric’s retreating back before looking back at the apostate. Knowing three languages was at least good for analyzing the basics of others, if anything else. The phrase did not sound like a simple farewell, as ' _dar'eth shiral'_ pretty obviously was. He had heard the Herald use it multiple times as well when concluding conversations. Despite their disagreement it also didn’t feel…negative, either. He was likely wishing him well.

            “Thank you,” he said simply, hedging a guess. He must have been right, because Solas looked surprised, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was not a look he had seen the elf wear for the month he’d been with the Inquisition.

            The somniari cleared his throat before responding with, “ _‘Ma neral_.”

            ‘You’re welcome,’ then. Fenris was confident in his ability to learn languages, though the reasons for learning Qunlat and Tevene were both due to that knowledge being in his best interest to survive, and there were plenty that lived around him that spoke both at the time. Elven would likely not be a necessary language to pick up, considering those that spoke it typically regarded him with distrust.

            He nodded and turned to catch up with Varric who had now stopped and was waiting on his friend. “Having a moment with Chuckles?” the dwarf teased.

            Fenris rolled his eyes and scoffed, walking past the dwarf towards the tavern, the short man chuckling behind him.

            The tavern was packed, many of the patrons huddling around a particular table to the right side of the back entrance. He could hear Lothriel’s voice carrying through the building, her audience mostly silent to hear the Herald speak of her latest adventure. She was describing their battle with Alexius to the tune of an epic scale that Fenris very much doubted.

            He and the dwarf pushed through the crowd towards her table. The Iron Bull was standing near her once they broached the ring of people. He looked to meet their eyes and winked before looking back at Lavellan.

            “And just as his barrier fell, Alexius was decimated under our combined assault. The five of us swooped in and cut the mad magister down.” Lothriel described, clenching a fist and pumping it in the air before swinging it down to the table for added effect. “With his dying breath, he handed Dorian the amulet, pleading with him to go back to our time and fix _everything_.”

            Her ham rivaled that of Varric on a normal day. Looking apprehensive, Fenris crossed to lean against the wall that Lavellan faced away from.

            “Then, while Dorian and I worked on the portal, my remaining team fought back an onslaught of demons, allowing us to get back here just in the nick of time,” she summarized, noticing Varric and Fenris.

            Her audience applauded loudly, a few shouts of “That’s our Herald!” and “Praise the Maker!” resounding through the crowd before everyone began to disperse, returning to their drinks and other business.

            Lothriel looked back at her companions with a smile that almost looked apologetic. She took her mug in hand and finished it off before raising it to get the attention of Flissa.

            “Careful there, Rosey,” Varric started as he took a seat at the end of the table and shook his pointer finger at the Herald. “I don’t need anyone encroaching on my territory here.”

            Lothriel laughed and waved him off. “No worries, Ser Tethras, I could never match your instilled bravado.”

            “That was an amazing story, Herald!” Flissa said as she bustled over while Varric nodded in approval and the other two took seats at Lavellan’s table. The waitress reached passed Bull to get the empty cup, him glancing appreciatively at her breasts. As she withdrew, she looked at the faces of the others. “Can I get you all something?”

            “A round for each of them, if you please,” Lavellan answered, not waiting for the others to accept or deny.

            With a smile and a bow, Flissa scampered off to fill their order.

            “You bullshit pretty well boss, no disrespect,” Bull complimented, bumping his elbow into hers as she leaned on to the table.

            A good-natured laugh rattled her shoulders as she elbowed him back, grinning. “Yeah well, you have to make something positive out of it, right? Otherwise how do you inspire people?”

            Varric’s grin was wide. “See I knew there was a reason I liked you, you _get_ it.”

            Flissa came back with their order and hurriedly crossed to another table. A few moments of silence passed as the four of them sipped at their new drinks.

            “Mind if I ask what really happened?” Fenris decided to broach the potentially negative turn for the conversation since he was a bit more invested than the others. The looks he’d been getting from her were bothering him and while he knew they were likely due to the future she saw, which they were taking steps now to abort completely, it didn’t make them any easier to endure.

            She sighed, but didn’t seem upset like he anticipated. She took a large gulp from her cup before setting it back down, “My biggest lie was that there were five of us. There were only four.”

            Varric knitted his eyebrows but remained silent. The others waited for her to elaborate.

            “I only found Solas and Leliana. I…,” she hesitated before looking at Fenris guiltily, “You were…already dead when I got there.”

            Fenris glanced down at the rim of his cup. Well that explained the glances, sort of. Why she felt guilty about it he couldn’t fathom, but at least he had an answer.

            Though, the implications on that were vast. It meant that he and Solas would likely have lost to Alexius after all, back at Redcliffe, if she and the altus hadn’t shown up. They’d both have been captured and imprisoned, and he would likely have been used as a mana well for the mages. The only remaining question was how she knew that.

            “Did you…find a body?” he asked, finding the question disconcerting, since he was asking about his own corpse. Hopefully they would never have to deal with time magic again.

            Lavellan cringed, “Creators, no! I never learned what happened but, Solas was the one who told me.”

            Fenris reached for his cup. On a surface level it made sense, since they were both likely captured together. He doubted he would die in the fight with Alexius considering his…value. However, Solas being a mage meant that they would not be imprisoned in proximity. So how _he_ knew that was the real question, but one that the Herald clearly didn’t know the answer to, and it was an answer they would never get. It was trivial, sure, but it was affecting Lavellan, so it mattered at least in that sense.

            The bard that had recently joined the organization began singing in the corner of the tavern, her song drifting sweetly through the air tinged by ale and hot food. She had recently written a song for Sera for…some reason, and it was among many of the soldiers’ favorites.

            “Just don’t beat yourself up over it, boss,” Bull chimed in, leaning over to get a good look at her and encourage her to meet his gaze. “It’s over now, and that will never happen thanks to you and the ‘vint.”

            She forced a chuckle and shook her head. “I know, Bull, it’ll just take me some time to get over it. Seeing everything you’re fighting for go to utter shit because of one mistake is tough on anyone. I’m just lucky I could come back.”

            To that they all nodded in agreement. Lavellan raised her cup and encouraged the others to follow her example. They did and she grinned, “To closing that fucking hole!” A clattering of their glasses was followed by a short ‘huzzah!’ and the horrific future was brought up no more.

            As the night progressed and the drinking continued, the group grew and became rather rambunctious. Varric spoke of adventures in Kirkwall that Fenris listened to and took with a pinch of salt, trying to drink away the unnerving feeling he still got in between his shoulder blades when the dwarf talked about him doing something he didn’t remember with people he also barely remembered. Sera interrupted the dwarf with comments every few minutes, cackling all the while as Bull tried to keep her as still and situated as was possible for the extroverted woman. At some point Dorian had joined them even, hovering around Lothriel more than anyone else in the group. Fenris almost sympathized with him, since Varric was the only person he felt comfortable with when he arrived, and still felt the most comfortable with, but only just. The Tevinter would have to earn his sympathy, until then, he would only garner pity.

            Well into the night, Fenris excused himself as the group slowly started filtering out. He knew Lavellan was tired, and that while they waited on the mages, that the next day or so would present some of their only time to relax, which included sleeping for reasonable amounts of time. Shrugging on the fur coat he still kept from when he first took his room, he pushed the tavern door open to see snow falling. He looked over at the breach as he crossed his way towards his room, the jade swirling clouds and the pull he felt towards it was just as strong and intimidating as it’s ever been. Shivering, both from the sensation of being drawn to the ethereal doorway and the cold, he turned his eyes away and, making an effort to keep balanced on both feet, made his way back to his cabin.

            As he reached for the door, he figured that the mage group wouldn’t be a terribly awful thing to have around. Not that he wanted them by any means, but that their presence would mean that they were one step closer to closing that unnerving tear, and that they were one step closer to finishing what they needed to, at least in the immediate sense. There was still the matter of what the Herald had learned in that future, but closing the Breach signaled a change in direction. Getting rid of that blight in the sky would be an improvement for morale, knowing that the immediate danger of the thing had been taken care of. Letting himself feel content for what would hopefully be a restful sleep, given the alcohol warming his, he pushed his way into his room and closed the door securely behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onyona as always for her timely editing. <3 Also, going forward, all notes will be at the end rather than the beginning, mostly due to the elven that will crop up.
> 
> Just as a note to keep in mind, any manufactured elven I write is in reference to the wonderful Fenxshiral's [_Project Elvhen Series._](http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) I can also almost guarantee that my attempts are terrible and incorrect, but I do what I can.
> 
>  _"Lasan venas ahn esayalas."_ = "I hope you find what you seek."  
>  _" 'Ma neral."_ = "My pleasure." [x](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/post/111735086898/anethara-haren-sorry-for-being-a-bother-but)


	8. Chapter 8

            It felt like no time until the mages had arrived in Haven. Many were still dressed in their Circle robes, and the overwhelming amount of complaining only served to push Fenris further back into the areas that he secluded himself in. Although he spotted some excited mages, ones donning ragged robes and damaged staves that had clearly seen conflict and looked genuinely happy to be with the Inquisition, there seemed to be one of them for every five in clean robes, complaining about their lack of amenities that not even the organization’s own soldiers had.

            The white-haired elf took a quick sweep of the grounds, noting where the mages tended to avoid and where they usually congregated, tucking the information away. Since the mages had come his senses were completely overwhelmed with their auras, to the point where his ability to locate individuals had been rendered useless. The somniari and altus were indistinguishable from their fade-intuned brethren, and it only served to make the former slave even more uncomfortable than he already was. Perhaps, he hoped, when the Breach is closed, they could find a better location for the mages, or at least distribute them across Ferelden at the various camps they’d set up. His last few assumptions had been incorrect, however, so he wasn’t quite ready to hold his breath.

            The elf moved towards the tavern to grab a hot drink and spotted Varric sitting at his little fire outside the chantry, writing. After a moment of consideration, the lyrium-branded warrior ducked into the establishment, grabbed two large cups of hot cider, and made his way towards the dwarf.

            He tried not to cling to Varric too much, but anything closer than acquaintances seemed hard to come by. The abundance of people in Haven afforded him many opportunities, but trust was something that required time and energy to establish, and none of those that he found himself in the company of had made much leeway in those categories, save Varric and Lavellan. For the last couple of years the largest crowd he’d probably been in at one time never exceeded thirty, and that was on the few occasions he entered a tavern. He attempted to visit Haven’s bar decently often, though most attempts only lead him to sit in the corner and look stand-offish.

            Not only was Varric the only familiar face for Fenris, he was also the only person with knowledge that remained out of the amnesiac elf’s reach. Those memories were invaluable to him, and now that they were within his reach, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. He became frustrated at how often he felt the need to seek out the dwarf’s company, despite typically seeking solitude. Today seemed a bothering kind of day.

            “You just can’t get enough of me, can you Broody?” Varric teased as he saw the elf approach his little spot near the inner gates. He was being good-natured, and from them spending so much time around one another, the elf was becoming comfortable with his teasing. At first he had worried that he was suffocating the dwarf, but if Varric felt that way, he failed to mention it. Fenris liked to think that he enjoyed a familiar face. Well, a familiar face that was a bit friendlier than others, like Cassandra.

            “Stuff it, dwarf,” Fenris growled, sitting on a small stool beside Varric who was setting aside some notes he had been working on, either for a book or for his secret spy ring, no doubt. Despite Fenris’s angry tone, he offered one of the hot mugs to the dwarf wordlessly.

            “Awh, for me?” the writer asked, teasing again. “You’re so sweet on me. What will the others think?”

            Fenris quirked an eyebrow and slowly began to withdraw his offering. The dwarf sighed and reached for it, uttering an apology under his breath in penance.

            They sat and drank in companionable silence, watching the various Inquisition forces walk to and fro. Haven was a change for both of them, covered in snow and the base consisting of nothing more than a small settlement around a Chantry that wasn’t far from the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was a far cry from the lofty mansions of Minrathous, the barren farmland of much of the Free Marches, or the hot stink of Kirkwall. The change from a warm climate to a cold one was the hardest on Fenris. He tried wearing boots around the camp but eventually gave up on the notion, the straps binding his heel and arch feeling significantly better than the suffocating leather and fur of boots despite the cold ache from his toes.

            “How are you holdin’ up?” Varric’s gravelly voice finally broke the silence. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could will away the sneeze building up under his eyes.

            “Fine, despite the cold,” Fenris answered, looking at the mountains in the distance. “I’m worried about the mages the Inquisitor recruited, and that altus along with them,” he added, wrinkling his nose at the idea. Dorian being less than fifty feet away from him at any given moment and remaining alive was something he had yet to get used to. “Well, besides the rift, of course.”

            Varric nodded sagely as he came back from a swig of his hot brew. “Ah, yeah, I bet living so close to two mages really puts you on edge, huh?” he asked, shooting the elf a knowing grin as Fenris frowned. The dwarf turned back to scan the settlement as he continued, “He seems all right, if a bit cocky and too well-groomed. He helped you guys back in Redcliffe, so I wouldn’t worry too much. He _did_ bring the Inquisitor back from the future, after all. I guess.”

            Fenris couldn’t help but shutter at the notion of time magic. The idea that a magister could and would perform time magic for a trivial, personal motivation didn’t surprise the former slave, but it didn’t serve to scare him any less. “We shall see if he is so different from his fellow countrymen,” he finally muttered before turning back to his drink.

            They briefly discussed their observations on the new mages and what they meant for the Inquisition. Varric felt fine around the mages it seemed, which surprised the elf, given what he’d heard happened at Kirkwall. His brief glimpses of memory weren’t enough for him to accurately reconstruct the fear of blood mages that the city was so famous for, and hearing that Varric didn’t really care either way surprised him about as much as he was expecting it. The dwarf was almost irritatingly blasé about the entire thing, and about most things that he experienced, if only outwardly. It made it difficult for Fenris to relate to him at times, but his saving grace was that Varric was disturbingly easy to talk to.

            As they sat a loud _clang_ rang out from somewhere near the Chantry with a few hollers resounding from inside the halls. The pair swiveled and craned their necks around towards the commotion. A blur of yellow plaid and red patchwork came running down the slope near them, cackling and snorting as she whizzed her way towards the gate, leaping the stairs to the outer camp. She nearly left clouds of powdered snow in her wake.

            Varric shook his head with a smile. “That Sera is going to really piss someone off one day with her half-assed pranks. Then she’ll have to _really_ book it.”

            Fenris huffed as a few disheveled mages covered in…something ran by them, yelling after her with no real hope of catching up. “She’s all legs; you’d have to freeze her in place to catch her.” Hopefully the pampered brat mages wouldn’t try just that on her, or they’d have to have a word with Lavellan.

            Varric gave Fenris a sideways glance before turning to him, a strange look on his face. “Hang on a minute, Broody, ‘all legs?’ I don’t mean to be rude, but you could aim a little higher. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re not her type,” he said, finishing with a chortle.

            Fenris’s frown deepened. How did that damned dwarf get sexual interest from “all legs?” Really? Did he really not understand that the expression wasn’t one of attraction, or was he being daft on purpose? He’s a surface dwarf, surely he would have picked up on that expression by now.

            Varric chuckled after a beat, a bit nervous when Fenris didn’t respond. “I’m kidding, Fenris! C’mon! Don’t get all pensive on me.”

            “Good,” the elf answered, holding his mug in both hands now, “because I was about to give you a lecture on attractive characteristics.”

            He quirked an eyebrow when Varric guffawed, slapping his knee as a bit of cider sloshed out of his cup and on to the snow beneath him, melting nigh instantly. The mages covered in goop that had followed Sera came back into view now at the gates, fuming and angry and looking to be arguing with one another, the blonde elf nowhere in sight.

            After a minute, the dwarf collected himself enough to speak, wiping a tear from his eye, “Oh, Broody, sometimes you are too much. I really did miss your dry jokes. Besides,” he shot Fenris a look before going back to his cider, smirking, “I have excellent taste, thank you.”

            Fenris nearly toppled off of the stool he was perched on at the implications of that look and that statement together. His ears were already beginning to darken before the alarm bells rang in his head to stop him from being a complete dolt. _Bianca! He’s talking about the crossbow!_

            He righted himself and clenched his teeth, feeling stupid. Varric had never seemed to voice any interest in much of anyone aside from his weapon, and whomever it was supposedly named after, if that was even the case. He told a different origin story every time if pressed beyond, “That’s a story I’ll never tell,” as if the dwarf needed to do that to be any more mysterious to acquaintances.

            He glanced over at Varric taking a long draught from the mug and smirked, trying to cover up his involuntary blush at the originally perceived confession with a joke. “Varric, you’re so sweet on me. What will the others say?”

            To the elf’s delight, the dwarf choked at the end of his swig, sputtering into a coughing fit as the cider struggled down his throat despite the protest. Fenris laughed aloud and patted his friend on the back to assist him.

            The man took a ragged breath before shooting Fenris a dirty look, “Bring it in a little, Fenris, your sense of humor is showing.” His face dissolved into a smirk before shaking his head and chuckling, joining the laughter the elf hadn’t quite shaken.

            As the pair recovered, Lavellan stopped in front of them as she walked by, her eyebrows high up on her forehead. “Was that you _laughing_ Fenris? Like, actually laughing? Or did Varric’s vocal chords suddenly double?” she teased.

            Fenris huffed and shot the Herald a stern look. Varric chuckled, “Of course, Herald! But don’t get used to it; it’s one of those rare experiences that you witness once in a life time.” He flattened out his hand and waved it in a slow arch in front of him as he spoke. “Cherish this moment, for it may never come again!” he added, his voice taking on a lilting tone as if he were telling a fairy tale to a group of children.

            Fenris rolled his eyes as he leaned back in the stool, the back of his fur coat falling off the seat to hang off the edge behind him. “Perhaps you’d hear it more if you were funnier.”

            Varric and Lavellan both put their hands on their chests and recoiled as if they were struck, nearly in unison. They were clearly spending far too much time together.

            “Low blow, Broody!” Varric retorted with a grin plastered over his face. Lothriel simply laughed.

            Fenris finished his cider, putting his feet closer to the fire that sat in front of himself and Varric.

            “Off to close the Breach, Herald?” the dwarf asked, looking over to the red-head as she pushed a lock of hair behind her pointed ear.

            She smiled, “Yep! Gonna get rid of that stupid thing. It’s mulling up the view, and we can’t have that now, can we?”

            “Certainly not.”

            Fenris turned to glance over his shoulder towards the voice. Dorian and Solas stood to his left now, having likely come from their lodgings north of the tavern. Dorian donned a set of armor he didn’t recognize, red padding over chainmail with a large, curved metal pauldron over one shoulder. Lavellan likely gave it to him, it didn’t suit him very well. It didn’t have nearly enough buckles and useless layers.

            The tevinter grinned at Lavellan, his mustache evening out over his upper lip. “Well? Is our dear Enchanter rounding up the other mages?”

           “As we speak,” the Herald confirmed, pulling her green coat around her and beginning to button up the front. “Let’s go ahead and head that way to seal it.”

            “Do you need us, Lavellan?” Varric offered before polishing off his cider.

            She waved her hand dismissively. “Nah I should be fine. You all gear up to celebrate once that thing is gone. We’ll have a party!”

            Varric chuckled, “Will do.”

            A rush of feet came down the slope and halted behind Lavellan. The Commander was breathing heavily and nearly ran right into her, his fur mantle billowing lightly with the abrupt stop, resembling a surprised bird more than a lion.

            “Herald!” he exclaimed, seeming both startled and relieved. He glanced over the others and realized he’d interrupted a conversation. He nodded his head towards them apologetically before continuing. “Excuse me. Are you on your way now, Herald?”

            Fenris shuffled in his seat, aware that the group was steadily growing. If this continued they’d block traffic. He noticed Lavellan’s body language change, shifting from laid back and friendly to slightly more authoritative, but with a playful edge.

            “Indeed, commander,” she responded with a smirk.

            Cullen righted himself, attempting to encompass the air of professionalism that Lavellan had readily cast off. He was flushed, likely from running to catch up to her. “My men are ready and about to set out with the mages. We’ll be there when you arrive.”

            Couldn’t he have just sent a scout to tell her that? Fenris leaned over and put his empty cup on the ground before righting himself, withdrawing his feet before they got too hot from the proximity of the flames.

            Lavellan nodded, trying to pull back her grin. “Thank you. We’ll meet you there.”

            The commander nodded, first to her then the rest of them, before turning and heading to the barracks.

            “You heard the man, let’s go!” Lavellan called, making a sweeping gesture with her left arm before heading down the steps, followed closely by her mage companions. The dwarf and elf watched them go and silently decided to suit up just in case they were needed, or the breach was a more difficult battle than they had assumed.

            Luckily for them, and potentially for Haven, the breach was closed quite easily with nary a demon or wraith in sight. They had gathered more than enough mages and soldiers to contain anything that would have been pulled through it, and Lavellan came back with a few scratches and a big smile, immediately calling for a party for the entire conclave. The settlement was more than happy to oblige, Josephine having already stockpiled food and wine for the occasion. The celebration began midafternoon and went on passed sundown.

            For Fenris, the first thing he noticed was the lack of the breach’s magic in the air. The constant buzz of the thinning Veil around him had lessened significantly thanks to that hole being closed. He wouldn’t completely relax since hundreds of mages were still a contention, but the immediate danger seemed to have passed, and he found himself wedged in a corner of the tavern as everyone jovially trafficked in and out of the small building. It was not equipped for a celebration of this size.

            As he did his best to get out of the cramped building, ignoring constantly being touched by the bodies around him, he caught sight of Lavellan and Cassandra talking, standing on the slope directly behind Varric’s set-up.

            Then a bell cracked through the laughter, the celebration dying on the lips of all in Haven as the chime echoed across the slope. A warning. They were being attacked.

            Snapped completely out of whatever train of thought he had or whatever action he was about to take, Fenris bolted towards his hold. He quickly strapped his armor on to his body, pulling his coat in between his pauldrons and hood to affix it like a cloak. It was awkward and a little bulky, but he would have little trouble fighting with it. After pulling his sword from its resting place on a table near his bed, he pushed out the door and made his way towards the gates to meet whatever they were facing head on.

            But it wasn’t what he had intended. He stopped short as the Herald, Cullen, and a blonde boy stood and spoke rapidly, gesturing to the expanse of the valley. Hundreds of glinting torches spotted the snowy dale, only partially illuminating the daunting force that now marched towards their vulnerable encampment. Haven was but a settlement, it could not withstand an assault like this. Fenris gritted his teeth and stared into the face of inevitable defeat. They had man power, but not nearly enough to take on this kind of army. Two figures stood on an outcrop as the army fell around it, one massively taller than the other, with red glinting light coming off of his form where he stood, the torches illuminating bits of him as if he were covered in red gems.

            “If we are to survive this, we must control the battle!” Cullen’s voice cut into his thoughts. The elf turned to the three of them. The blonde boy couldn’t have been more than a teenager, a large-brimmed hat obscuring his face, keeping his expression hidden. He had come to warn them about the assault? Strange that he would know and break apart from his army.

            The commander gestured to the trebuchets. “I will assign men to control the armaments. I will ask that you help me keep them under control and moving.”

            Lothriel nodded, all trace of humor gone from her visage. “Absolutely. Fenris!”

            The elf leapt from the slope that he stood on, making his way toward her. “Herald.”

            “Help me round up everyone you can so we can man these trebuchets.”

            With a nod of compliance, he sped off back into the heart of the settlement to grab as many of the Herald’s “inner circle” as he could, Cullen shouting orders at the mages and soldiers as he left. Josephine, Cassandra, and Cullen were on the outside and already knew of the assault, and the ambassador would likely fall back to the chantry. Blackwall and Iron Bull should be nearest the Herald, which means he needed to get the others.

            “Varric!” he yelled, leaping the stairs to get to the dwarf who was already throwing snow on the fire, Bianca strapped to his back and ready. He looked back at Fenris with a mildly serious expression, expectant.

            “Trebuchets,” Fenris said quickly.

            “Got it. See you there, Broody!” the dwarf answered before heading west towards the entrance.

            Vivienne was already on her way when he bore left up the stairs towards the chantry. She waved him in the direction of the rest of camp, “I’m on my way, darling.”

            He turned his momentum south-west, pushing towards the Tavern and spotted Sera emerging from close to the chantry steps, bow and quiver in hand and looking a little disheveled. She’d been pounding drinks since the breach closed; this fight was going to be difficult for her.

            “Trebuchets. Help Lavellan.”

            “Yeah alright glowy I’m goin’,” she grumbled, thrusting her quiver over her shoulder and running a hand over her eyes.

            As the warrior turned, he nearly ran right into Solas. He grunted and wheeled back, almost losing his balance to keep from colliding with the elf. The apostate’s eyebrows were pulled in, his face serious.

            “We are to protect the siege equipment?” he clarified.

            “Yes,” Fenris answered, standing up straight and looking back towards the houses in the corner.

            “Dorian has already left,” Solas informed him.

            “Good. Let’s not waste any more time.” Fenris replied, turning and making his way back towards the gates of Haven with the two other elves in tow.

            The slope was being swarmed when they arrived. The clash of swords, shields, the sound of flaring spells and screams filled the air, the tell-tale sign of struggle and battle. The templars were visible now, and monstrous. A red aura permeated the air around them, leaking from their armor and their bodies. Spotting Lavellan on the left nearest trebuchet with Dorian, Iron Bull, and Varric, he passed them to protect the one beside them with the others. Vivienne spotted them and followed in step with them as they crossed the path between the two pieces of equipment.

            One of the Templars launched itself at Fenris and he slashed at them, some of their blood hitting his arms. It felt…wrong. Blood normally didn’t feel anything but wet and warm, but this had a sensation unlike anything he’d ever felt. It vibrated, a faint tingling on his skin that felt sickening, his brands shimmering. He looked to see a large templar thrusting their hands towards a soldier that was near death, red stone mounting around them as it consumed them entirely. Fenris drew in a ragged breath as the sound hit his ears, his skin.

            Red lyrium.

            He remembered Varric’s brother, Bartrand. He had gone mad, sealed Varric, Hawke, Carver, and Anders underground when they went on their expedition. When they found him years later he’d gone…he’d gone mad from it. The artifact, idol, whatever it was he picked up had driven him insane, his rushed gibberish and insane cackling bouncing through the walls of the mansion as the building itself reeled from the effects of the cursed stone. This sound was the same, twisted and vibrating in a chaotic manner, no rhythm to be discerned from it, just complete and total _madness_.

            The elf hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as the memories assaulted him, knocking him out of his attentiveness. This marked the first time he’d remembered something so vividly while conscious. Of course it would be in the middle of a likely hopeless battle. Grunting loudly, he pushed it back in an effort to concentrate on what was happening around him. The templar had been turned into a beast, an abomination writhing under the weight and agony of the pure lyrium jutting from its swollen back and contorted arms. It was disgusting, and very similar to the flashes of abominations of mages he’d remembered from Kirkwall.

            In the end, anyone can justify their need for power, whether mage or templar.

            His sword came ‘round and crashed into the body of the creature, its dark blood spraying across the snow like spilled ink on a blank page. It practically howled in anger and turned to Fenris as its skin began to peel and it burst into flames.

            “Do be careful, elf. It would be best if you weren’t killed in the middle of battle,” Vivienne’s voice rang out as the creature slumped to the ground, likely unconscious from the pain. Fenris arched his sword and severed its head before turning to the large templar, ignoring the Enchanter’s unnecessary smarm.

            After a combined assault against the General, it fell to the ground in a heap, arrows sticking out of its face as its blood stained the disheveled snow. Some scouts jumped on the controls of the trebuchet and pulled back the arm before swinging it forward. Fenris’s group stayed as more infected templar made their way up the slope and prepared to defend those manning the weapon.

            After slaying what felt like fifty soldiers a rumble erupted underneath their feet. Fearful, Fenris turned sharply to see tons of snow cascading down the mountainside in the distance, towards the narrow valley where the bulk of the army marched. It decimated their ranks, enveloping much of the army in a wave of unrelenting force that stifled their assault. Someone had knocked the snow loose with a trebuchet hit and engulfed the enemy with a landslide.

            Cheers rang out and Fenris couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief. The battle certainly wasn’t over, but that act alone gave them enough time to pull back and potentially regroup.

            That moment of certainty was dashed when a deafening roar pierced through the din of fighting and the settling avalanche. A trebuchet slightly further west burst apart under the assault of a red flame, and a dragon flew in an arch over the siege equipment before retreating back to the higher skies. It was monstrous, twisted flesh like withered burns stretching over its body with bulbous, dark growths protruding through its skin. It appeared rotting and decomposed, as if it would look more accurate dead and in the ground then flying about overhead.

            “What in the flying fuck is that!?” Sera exclaimed, sheer terror written on her features.

            “It appears to be an archdemon,” Solas responded, staff still in hand.

            Lavellan ran by now from the direction of the destroyed trebuchet. Figures that she would have been the one to start the avalanche. She turned to them and gestured for them to accompany her.

            “C’mon! We need to get back to the Chantry! We can gawk at it later!”

            The two groups merged to form a crowd, heading towards the main gates at Haven. They noticed the forge master trying to dislocate boxes from a barred entrance to a flaming house. He was struggling to get in.

            “Someone help Harritt,” Lavellan yelled, gesturing to him. “The rest will keep going.”

            Blackwall broke off to help him with Varric staying to protect them. Templars were continuing to assault the settlement despite the landslide, and one man staying behind was too risky.

            As they moved into the settlement, they realized that the damage was far worse than they imagined. Most every structure was in flames and some state of demolition, and residents and scouts were scouring the rubble to free those trapped inside the flaming buildings. The comfortable settlement had become a warzone in the blink of an eye. It was unsettling how easily something that meant so much to people could be destroyed in so short a time. It made comfort seem so fleeting.

            Fenris leaned back on his heel as he saw a bolt whiz by and stab into the visor of a templar behind him. Varric and Blackwall were catching up.

            “Everyone split up!” Lavellan ordered, taking in the situation and determining the best course of action. She turned to the others as a few of them seemed unconvinced of her idea. Her eyes glimmered with the fire around them, the contrast between orange and green heightening the intensity of her gaze. “Our best chance of getting everyone out is to _split. up._ ”

            They splintered into groups of two, each pair running towards a burning building or someone yelling for help under the assault of the enemy soldiers. The sound of the red lyrium was largely being drowned out by the other sounds around them, but Fenris could still hear it, could still feel it. Since he began fighting his brands had been behaving erratically, stuttering and flashing under no command of his own as if it were reacting to the other type of lyrium. It didn’t make sense, but as long as he was still able to fight, it mattered little.

            He turned to see Solas coming back from downing a bottle of lyrium, his wrinkled nose a testament to how little he liked the taste of it. Strategically a mage was best for him if he needed to be in a duo and, as little as he liked the idea, he cared more about staying alive than siding with principle. Varric was not close enough to be a viable alternative, and Solas was the mage who had so far earned his trust the most out of the three available, despite how shallow that trust was. Vivienne had earned some of his respect, and Dorian laughably far from both trust _and_ respect. The elf was the only option.

            Solas met his gaze, his face showing surprise before it morphed into understanding. Without a word they splintered off, both fade stepping towards the tavern as Lavellan and Cassandra assisted Lysette near the entrance. The building was mostly destroyed, the roof caved in near the east entrance and a large section of wall blown out on the other side. A few templars had jumped the barricade and were picking around the remains. A muffled cry rang out from inside of it. It must have been Flissa.

            “I will get her,” Solas yelled, thrusting his staff forward to blow out the door. “I will assist when she is safe.”

            Fenris turned wordlessly in front of the doorway to face the enemies around them. There weren’t many, at least not yet, and as long as the mage didn’t take long he would be fine on his own. He stood his ground as he slashed and parried at the templars, their wide eyes staring at him angrily from behind their masks. They never spoke, just screamed and roared as if the lyrium had already stripped them of their personhood and humanity.

            Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a mangled form he hadn’t seen before. A creature bent over, its arms large jutting pillars of red crystal which it leaned on for support. It flashed and disappeared as he pulled his sword from the middle of a soldier.

            The elf felt the air behind him displace, something coming in between his back and the flames behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he wheeled around to try and counter the creature. It slashed at him as he turned towards his left, the lyrium coming down and striking his armored left arm as it swung. The creature howled as its appendage glanced off his armor. The pain was immediate, the sharp and pinpoint strike dinting in his armor and colliding with his limb so hard it nearly knocked him off balance. Fenris cried out at the pain, but finished his swing, sending the lighter creature off the steps and into the fire behind him. It shrieked in agony as it was set alight.

            The elf’s left arm went limp, releasing its hold from his sword as it dropped to his side, useless. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and heaved up his sword with one hand, widening his stance to make up for the lack of balance that he normally had. He spun as a gurgle came from his left and parried a strike from a templar, his movements now significantly slower than before. He attempted to use his brands and they flickered, the pain from using them worse than it normally was. At least the pain from his broken arm had not registered yet. What the hell was that mage doing?!

            Lightly tossing his sword up, he released it for a moment to change his grip and thrust forward, his blade piercing between the chest plate and the lower armor on the beast, breaking through the chainmail. His momentum saw his thrust through, but he struggled to dislodge his sword, picking up his foot to kick away the struggling beast.

            The world shifted as a sweep knocked him over, right on to his broken bone, as he pulled his sword and the templar with it. The sharp pain struck him in full force as he screamed, rolling to get off his arm. The ground was the worst place from him to be, what had kicked--? He saw the red lyrium pillars first, then the rest. The fast abomination he’d thrust into the fire shook violently over him as it struggled against the charred burns that it was suffering, parts of it still simmering. It shifted and raised one of its arms, ready to pierce through Fenris’s armor just as he had its comrade.

            Just before Fenris could fade step and thrust himself afar, thick ice shards rained over him in an arch, shunting straight into the beast. The momentum carried the thing over Fenris and straight on to the dying templar whose body still held Fenris’s blade. The elf turned as Solas thrust himself over him, straddling his body in a protective stance. After taking a moment to assess that the immediate danger had passed, he looked down to Fenris. He had soot and ash on him in patches, some wiped away and smudged while other still lay untouched. Some of his armor had been burned, but he looked undamaged.

            He appraised Fenris for a moment, his blue eyes cold and calculating. Then his eyebrows pushed up and his expression flickered with concern.

            “Your arm…”

            Fenris scoffed and pulled at his blade uselessly. “It took you long enough.”

            Ignoring the jab, Solas moved and pushed his foot against the Templar so Fenris could dislodge his sword. The elf grunted and pulled it back, rocking on to his good side and righting himself to a sitting position, his shoulder starting to ache. The adrenaline was still there, but the pain was beginning to break through. It would be sharp in probably thirty minutes, and he would be largely unable to fight.

            “Is she alive, at least?” Fenris asked, glancing at the tavern as the roof caved in completely.

            “Yes, she should be in the Chantry now,” Solas answered, looking behind them. He turned to Fenris and offered him his hand.

            Fenris ignored him and heaved his sword up, striking the ground and gripping at the crossguard to heave himself on to this feet. “Let us go, then.”

            Solas gripped his staff with both hands, seeming to be containing his expression, but said nothing in return.

            The pair moved quickly towards the Chantry. As they neared the apothecary, they met up with Iron Bull and Sera who were rushing Adan and Mineave away from some pots.

            “Get down!” Iron Bull yelled just before the pots exploded, a peculiar burning smell following the flash of fire and debris. Fenris looked after shielding his eyes, all of the buildings around where the pots once sat were engulfed in flames. He pushed down the lump of regret in his throat as he watched his belongings burn. He owned little, but he had grown accustomed to what he had. It was stupid, but he would miss them.

            “C’mon!” Sera called and gestured at the two elves before she and Iron Bull ducked around the wall towards the building. They followed her, Bull, Adan, and Mineave towards the chantry, meeting up with the other teams that had coalesced outside the sanctuary to kill another horde. After the last templar fell, they all swarmed into the remaining stone building that had not yet been destroyed and slammed the doors behind them.

            They all took this opportunity to breathe. Chancelor Roderick sat in a chair near the entrance with the blonde boy by his side. He was severely damaged and bleeding out, looking to be using much of his efforts simply to stay conscious.

            Cullen approached Lavellan as she sheathed her weapons. “That was a brilliant maneuver with the trebuchet, Herald, but that dragon showing up stole back all of that time you earned us.”

            Lavellan huffed through her nose as the boy spoke up, explaining that he’d seen an archdemon, and that the one outside looked like one. Cullen shook his head, considering that information trivial.

            “It doesn’t matter what it looks like. That dragon has carved a path straight to Haven. They will kill everyone here,” he said, gesturing and looking at Lavellan, his attitude as their Commander heavy and serious.

            “The Elder One only cares about the Herald. He doesn’t care about the village,” the boy insisted, looking between the two of them. Lavellan squared her shoulders as he continued. “He’ll crush them and kill them anyway, even if he doesn’t care about them. I don’t like him…”

            Fenris’s arm was starting to hurt more severely now, the pain radiating through him as the broken bone chaffed under the swelling. He inhaled sharply and leaned against a pillar, the ebb of his adrenaline receding. His sword was on his back again now, and he doubted he’d be drawing it again. As the others continued talking, Varric approached him, worried.

            “Hey Broody, you okay?” he asked, Bianca secure on his back as he gestured to reach for Fenris, but didn’t actually touch him.

            “It’s broken,” Fenris said through clenched teeth, only looking at the dwarf for a moment before turning his attention back to the group.

            “I can give you a potion, take the edge off,” he offered, rustling through his pack. He took out a small bottle of red liquid and handed it to Fenris. Fenris sighed and took it, wedging off the cork with his pointer finger and thumb and drank it. It had been flavored, but the tang was still there. He licked his lips and nodded to his friend.

            “Thanks,” he muttered, his throat coated with the substance as he cleared his throat.

            “No problem,” Varric said with little smile before also turning his attention to the group.

            Chancelor Roderick was standing now, the boy watching him carefully as he stood alongside him. He was explaining that he had made a pilgrimage from this area and knew a secret path that could get them out relatively safely. Fenris sighed. At least there was hope yet.

            After a beat, Lothriel turned to Cullen, meeting his gaze. “How about it? Can you get everyone out, Commander?”

            Cullen regarded her for a moment before nodding. “As long as he shows us the way, it’s certainly possible. What about you?”

            There was a deadly silence that weighed everyone down as she didn’t answer, turning instead towards the doors of the Chantry. Fenris scowled. She intended to die to let them get out? How would that help any of us? She was the only one with the mark, and he was less than content to let the Chantry use her as a martyr symbol.

            Cullen looked expectant and then forced his expression down, a flash of worry escaping his visage just as he did. “Perhaps you will surprise it,” he said with resolution that he didn’t seem to hold. “You’ll find away.”

            He turned to the rest of them and gestured towards the back of the hall, the boy taking Roderick over his shoulder and assisting as they moved. “Inquisition, follow them so that we can get out.” He turned back to the Lavellan now. “Do your best to distract them until we reach the tree line.”

            She nodded and turned to her companions who had largely amassed behind her. “Varric, Cassandra, Solas. Let’s go. I’ll make sure you get out of here.”

            Fenris felt a jolt of panic as he looked to his friend. Varric took Bianca in hand and readied himself. He looked back at Fenris and winked with that crooked smirk of his. “See you soon, Broody.”

            Fenris collected himself and forced a serious expression, trying to ignore the wave of anxiety that coursed through him at the idea of Varric not making it back. He only nodded and pushed himself from the pillar, biting back a wince as his limb moved. “See you soon.”

            The four pushed through the double doors as the rest of them filed behind Roderick, Cullen not far behind them. Fenris clenched his jaw tight as he swept his arm against him, grunting at the sharp pain, and holding the broken thing close to him. Lavellan so far seemed to attract miracles. She somehow got the anchor, could close the breach, attracted all sorts of powerful attentions and companions, and buried an entire army with one trebuchet. If he had to put his confidence in anyone to get them out alive, it would be her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onyona for being my editor. <3  
> All comments and critique are appreciated.
> 
> EDIT: About 45 minutes after I posted this chapter I realized a paragraph was missing at the end. As of now it's been fixed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Be sure to read the notes at the end of the chapter for an update! Sorry about the wait!**

 

            The cold had become nearly excruciating not long into their hike through the mountains. The surgeon had taken a moment in the catacombs under the chantry to splint Fenris’s arm so the bone could achieve some semblance of stability, but the chilling wind had cut straight through it, even when he unhooked his fur cloak and wrapped it around himself. The survivors of Haven all trudged through the deep snow as quickly as they could, but Fenris was not taking the wind chill well. Beyond his arm, he was unable to procure a pair of boots for the hike, and he was sure his feet were in an awful state after being perpetually buried in snow. The roars from the dragon still echoed over the loosely grouped trees around Haven, and it did nothing for his nerves. They were still back there, fighting a lost cause to get to that trebuchet to overrun Haven with snow one last time. Lavellan would send her team away as she set up the weapon, he figured, making sure the three of them got a head start before her. A better chance to survive.

            As the ensemble of the soon to be homeless Inquisition forces broke through the forest, Cullen turned to Leliana, asking her to shoot an arrow to signal the Herald. His sure look was slipping, the anxiety and stress of the day’s events finally catching up to him. They had lost a lot of people, and there was a chance of still losing more. For a man who prides his soldiers above his own safety, this would be particularly difficult for him, as it would be difficult for the rest of them.

           Leliana nodded and strung an arrow to her bow. Vivienne flicked her wrist and the arrow head was set alight. The spy master raised her arrow high, an orange and yellow flicker against the darkening blues and grays of the mountainous valley, smattering dim light as it danced in a harsh rhythm with the calling wind. Cullen’s voice rose over the whistle of the wind as it glanced against the rocky crags and rustling trees about them.

            “Raise the signal!”

            A _thwick_ and the arrow flew high. The trope of survivors watched as it soared hard into the air, using the wind to carry it over the trees so the Herald could see it and escape. The elf watched, his shivering ceasing for a moment as he clutched the fur around his torso closer, the wind dying to a quieter dim around them as the arrow reached the peak of its arc, falling down back into the trees, the little fire disappearing among the black rough pine trees.

            In the general silence of the valley, a wolf howled in the distance. He turned towards the sound, back towards the trees that lay behind him. The snow sat heavy on the branches, the greenery turning whiter as it continued up to the tips of each tree.

            He narrowed his eyes now. That seemed wrong… He turned back towards the others to find no one. He was alone in the valley. A sudden panic gripped him as his breath rushed out of him, his chest constricting tightly as he realized that they were gone. Had they abandoned him?

            A howl resounded again. The constriction in his chest turned into a wicked cold spike, arching down his spine as it shot through his body. His arm ached and as he turned behind him once again. A pair of bright, shining eyes gleamed at him from the thicker tree line, the lenses glimmering against the aching white of the snow.

            Fear branched through his body as he spun and ran in the direction the troop had been heading, his cloak whipping behind him. His arm screamed as he reflexively moved it in an effort to run and he cried out, falling forward in the snow. Shit, he couldn’t move it to keep his balance. He caught himself with his good hand and scrambled up, running forward without a second glance.

            As he rushed through the two tall cliffs in front of him, the snow began to become shallow, allowing him to run faster, though he could barely feel his feet from the cold. The wind picked up as he flew, transforming the sounds of the forest into a sharp caterwaul spinning around his head. It sliced through the bone in his broken limb and he hissed sharply, baring his teeth as he nearly stumbled again in his stride.

            The unrelenting, striking panic drove him onward. The wind attempted to drag him as it caught in his cloak. He reached up to the button line across his chest to rip them off and cast the thing behind him. As he pulled his good arm up, he caught a flicker of red in his vision. A burgundy ribbon was tied around his wrist, wrapped firmly around the gauntlet with a long section trailing behind it. When did this get here? _What_ is this?

            It stopped him for a moment as he looked at it in confusion, unsure of when he had acquired it. The rapid crunch of snow and heavy breath alerted him to the presence of the predator again, the need to flee thrusting through his veins again. He dropped the fur and ran, his eyes still facing forward. The red ribbon danced around and behind him in an erratic manner, seeming to pay no attention to the way the wind wanted to carry it. It fluttered and sunk as he jerked his arm forward, the fabric seeming to have a weight of its own. It pulled on him, willing him to stop running and sink down, but he ignored it resolving to flee with a broken arm and whatever this new weight was.

            He was good at fleeing, at hiding. He had become accustomed to the idea of running, the fear of being hunted an ingrained feeling within him that he would never be able to describe, but would immediately be able to identify. It was all-consuming; a thinking brain becoming easily lost in the haze of survival instincts if one wasn’t accustomed to the fear.

            Spotting a shift in the tree pattern Fenris arched and twisted through close trunks and hanging branches in order to get to a potential escape. He hoped for a cave nearby, or anything that he could hide in. The wolf wouldn’t necessarily lose his scent, no good predator would do that, but he could collect himself in an effort to determine how best to continue to run, perhaps, or use the change of venue to attack with a new advantage.

            That possibility was dashed when he broke through the thick entanglement of trees to be faced with a bright, flat clearing. The snow was untouched, and the trees surrounding the edges were over a hundred feet away. The wind had halted as soon as he broke through, the eerie silence nearly as deafening as the wind had been before. The shock made him stumble, the setting panic in his gut churning into deep-set horror. He was completely exposed now. Despair came crashing down on him as he saw more eyes alight between the branches, dark shadows of wolves pushing between the dark trunks into the clearing.

            His ragged breathing became hoarse as the hopelessness of his situation gripped him. That lone wolf had lead him right here, it must have. He fell for the easiest trick in the book, acted the prey until the very end. His legs started to tremble as he mind reeled, trying to think of anything he could do to get away. There was none. He was unarmed, injured, and could do little to protect himself from a pack of beasts. His good arm, heavy with the weight of the ribbon, pulled him down to his knees as he watched the wolves approach, faintly making out the huff of the wolf that had pursued him here.

            A sudden violent shake rattled through his body. All the breath rushed out of him in a burst of movement as he squeezed his eyes shut before all sensation suddenly left him.

            The first thing he noticed was warmth. Soothing, desperately needed heat. He shuffled and leaning on his good side as he attempted to get a bearing on his surroundings. A filtering of voices came to him, all in unison and mimicking each other’s pitch. Disoriented, Fenris rubbed at his eyes and forced them open, narrowing them as he scanned his surroundings.

            He was lying on a cot with heavy furs draped over him. Other cots stretched out on either side, some empty while others had the wounded lain out and resting, all sitting under a large, perched tent to protect them from the snow, though he heard no rushing wind outside. There was a large group of the commune standing about, singing together in song, one he wasn’t sure he’d heard before. There was a large fire in front of the arc of people as they sang, the crowd moving around it. He blinked and saw Mother Giselle, her red and white immaculate fabric very noticeable against the dark and then—

            His breath caught. Lothriel stood in front of her, looking at everyone as they moved…towards her? A few people bent down on one knee as the song began to finish, much of the rest of the gathered crowd falling suit. She looked uneasy, startled by the display, but absolutely alive, and all in one piece.

            The unsettling dream succinctly banished from his mind, he sighed with relief before trying to push himself up. A hand came down to stop him and he started, looking towards the owner. It was the surgeon that had splinted his arm from before. Her hood was pulled down now, her auburn hair cropped short as her bangs stuck to her head, sweating no doubt from the work she’d been doing since they set up camp.

            “Don’t get up. You must rest,” she said sternly.

            Fenris made a face and brushed her hand away, sitting up completely. He noticed his splint had been changed to something more substantial, but his sleeve had been torn off in the process. He flexed his fingers. His arm still hurt, but not nearly as badly as it had just a few…

            “How long was I out?” he grumbled before clearing his throat.

            The woman huffed and leaned back to grab a waterskin and handed it to him. “A few hours; not very long. You fainted around the time the avalanche came down over Haven.”

            He drank for a long moment, breathing deeply when he took the container from his lips. “How is my arm healed so quickly?”

            “It’s not completely healed, you still really shouldn’t use it, but…” she trailed off and glanced towards the community, the reverent forces and citizens now milling about the camp. He followed her eyes and saw a flash of red as Lavellan walked off past the tent fabric. He looked back at her with an arched eyebrow, not understanding.

            “That elf healed your limb,” she clarified.

            Fenris sighed, flaring his nostrils as he handed the container back to her, muttering his thanks. She didn’t mean Lavellan. Of course the somniari would do it. He probably felt guilty from having taken so long rescuing Flissa and causing it in the first place.

            After a moment with the surgeon while she checked over him, satisfied that his feet weren’t frostbitten, she left him with a warning not to mill around the camp. A pair of boots sat beside his bed regardless and he looked about. If Lavellan and Solas were back…then…

            He spotted Varric nursing a gash on his leg but with a wide grin on his face as he chatted with some folks, his leg stretched out and up to keep it from bleeding too much through the bandage. Cassandra was standing with the other advisors as they chatted hotly around a makeshift table. Everyone had made it back, and he felt more at ease than he had since they had closed the Breach. It seemed that the immediate battle was finally over.

            Fenris tested his toes and feet and decided to keep sitting at the cot for now. They stung, which was at least a good indicator of them healing well. All things considered, it could have turned out a lot worse for him. Anchoring himself with his good hand, he pulled his feet to them and sat crosslegged, hoping in some attempt that his legs might help warm his feet faster than the furs on their own. Looking up, he met Varric’s gaze. The dwarf grinned and waved, reaching for a crutch near him as he stood to make his way over. Fenris made a dismissive gesture, urging the dwarf to stay seated, but the storyteller ignored him.

            Once he’d finally made his way over, Fenris had started to untie his braid. Realizing he no longer had his comb, he huffed a little and stopped.

            Varric groaned as he sat slowly on to the cot next to Fenris, moving so his injured leg lay across it.

            “For fighting a dragon, you look well,” the elf said, not entirely sure what to say to him. He was glad he was back, elated. How to express that feeling, though, wasn’t something he was very accustomed to.

            “An archdemon and a magister darkspawn, actually. I think I made it out pretty damn lucky,” Varric corrected, his rumbling voice sarcastic as he frowned.

            Fenris blinked, trying to process what he had just said. “A what?”

            Varric sighed. “After…after you were gone, Hawke was summoned by a bunch of Grey Wardens to deal with a particular darkspawn that they had captured. One that could talk and was intelligent. They needed Hawke’s blood for a ritual to let it out to kill it. We let it out, we killed it. Well…or so I thought, until a few hours ago.”

            Fenris rubbed his forehead as he knitted his eyebrows. Okay, so, there were darkspawn that weren’t mindless beasts, ones that were somehow intelligent, let alone coherent. That was enough to mull over, but this? “And this was the same one that you faced before?” he asked, casting his green eyes to Varric’s golden ones.

            Varric nodded gravely. “Yeah, it was Corypheus all right. And before you say it, we checked to make sure he was dead.” The dwarf sighed and leaned against his crutch anchored against the bed. “Poked him with Hawke’s staff a few times and everything.”

            Fenris rubbed the back of his neck. “You said something about it being a magister?”

            Varric shot him a knowing look before answering. “Well, it claimed at the time to be one of the magisters that made it into the Black City.”

            Fenris cocked an eyebrow at that. “The ones that supposedly started the Blight?”

            “Yeah, seemed pretty adamant about it all too. Who knows, maybe it’s just a crazy monster that somehow managed to escape death,” the dwarf added, wrinkling his nose at the prospect.

            “One that’s leading an army of corrupted templar and wields an arch demon,” Fenris retorted, following his statement with a groan. So much for feeling relaxed. It would make them feel better to believe it was crazed, but with it having the prowess and ability to take over so much of the remaining templars, they would be worse than naïve to believe it.

            Varric took a drink of water from his canteen and sighed. “Tell me about it,” he grumbled, fixing the top back in place, “For the time being, at least, we’re safe. Lavellan is a miracle worker, as always. We just have to find another place to set up.” He waved his hands and rolled his eyes, adding sarcastically, “No big deal.”

            Fenris bit back a sarcastic remark and took a deep breath instead, flexing his toes under his thighs to give them some semblance of movement. “For now, we’re alive. That’s all that matters,” he agreed, glancing at Varric. He met the dwarf’s gaze for a moment before turning for the waterskin the surgeon had left by his cot.

            Varric’s rough voice spoke up. “Yeah, we’re alive.” He sounded like he was smiling.

            After a moment of companionable silence, a familiar voice broke through their reverie.

            “Creators! He’s awake!”

            Fenris turned and looked headlong into bright green eyes smiling at him from the edge of the surgical tent. Lavellan rushed to him and leaned over in her green leather coat to get a better look at him. He just barely noticed Solas shuffling by where she had been, standing with his arms tight behind his back and donning a guarded frown.

            “I am,” the warrior replied, shifting a little from her person as she took a look at his splinted arm and pushed her fingers to her lips in thought.

            “Your arm looks a lot better than when we first got here,” she voiced finally, standing straight again and patting her own arm in the spot where his was broken. “Once we bunker down I’ll be sure to get you another arm piece, one that won’t get broken so easily.”

            Fenris blinked, surprised at her. She wasn’t offering, she was telling him she’d do it. “Please, Herald, you aren’t responsible for—.”

            She crooked her eyebrow and shrugged, her hands upturned by her shoulders, “I need my fellow fighters at their best, Fenris. Besides, you’re my friend. I can’t have you running around in cheap armor getting hurt all the time.” Her face relaxed into a genuine smile at her last point, lowering her hands to sit on her hips.

            Fenris blinked, touched. He tried to will away the swelling in his chest at her statement. A friend. Is that what they were? He hadn’t known any of these people for very long, save Varric. In truth, he hadn’t fully considered the impact of staying with such a large organization like this. In Haven he’d largely kept to himself and would occasionally speak with others, usually only when prompted. If he wasn’t with Varric, he was largely alone. Lothriel did seem like the kind of person that would make friends quickly, or presume friendship fairly soon after becoming acquaintances with someone if she saw them enough. He was…not so trusting, nor personable. Perhaps he could find more friends here, but did he truly want that?

            “Doing a bang up job, Solas,” she said, her voice carrying passed Fenris to the apostate at the edge of the shelter.

            He seemed to wince before smoothing it over with a closed, small frown. “A poor choice of words, but yes, thank you.”

            Varric laughed when Lothriel realized her slip up, her eyes growing marginally wider. “Good going, Rosey.”

            “Whoops,” she muttered with a shrug. The increasingly familiar din of the Herald’s advisors angrily muttering amongst each other drifted through the air and Lothriel sighed, turning to look back at them. “Guess I better go wrangle them away from each other before we have a higher death toll,” she joked. She looked back and met Fenris’s gaze and smiled again. “Good to see your back up. See you, Fenris.”

            Fenris nodded and with a wave, she turned and headed for the temporary war table on the other side of the large fire. She seemed in high spirits, but then again she seemed to almost always be wearing some version of a smile on her face unless it was in the heat of the moment. In fact, the storm on Haven was probably the first time he’d seen her so serious for any actual length of time. Considering the gravity of the situation, he couldn’t blame her, but here she was, grinning as ever. Perhaps she was simply elated to even be alive at all, or maybe she really was just that easy going.

            “Does anything bother her?” he asked once she was out of ear shot, glancing at Varric.

            The dwarf chuckled, “She’s a lot like some people I know. Good at deflecting.”

 _Like you_ , Fenris thought, giving him a look.

            “Not everyone wishes to wear their emotions so plainly,” came the mage’s voice as he approached. He walked over the cold ground to stand at the foot of each of the men’s cots.

            “Oh, like you, Chuckles?” Varric teased, shooting the elf a smirk before turning and checking the bandage on his leg.

            Withholding a reaction, as if to prove the dwarf’s point, Solas instead turned to look at Fenris. His eyebrows peaked slightly, but only just. “How are…” he faltered for a moment, “How is your arm?”

            Fenris frowned, squeezing the hand of his broken arm, rendering a jolt of pain, but no sensible movement from the bone itself. The feeling that the other man was only helping him out of a feeling of personal responsibility was still irritating to him. If he was going to endure the unpleasantness of being healed, it should be for something other than a sense of guilt and being owed something.

            “It would be better without your pity,” he spat.

            “Hey now…” Varric chastised quietly.

            Something akin to hurt flashed in the mage’s eyes before he masked it with a deeper frown, his shoulders tight. “I did not heal you for some misplaced idea of contrition,” he responded, his voice angry and clipped, “but because it was the right thing to do.”

            The warrior flared his nostrils and sighed. He wasn’t being fair nor grateful and, as uncomfortable as his motives had seemed, the somniari was still doing him a kindness. His arm had been set by the surgeon previously and could have healed fine on its own. It would have taken months, however, and that was time that he couldn’t really spare if he had any desire to be useful to Lavellan or Varric and pull his own weight.

            After glancing at Varric and then Solas, Fenris shook his head. “I apologize. That was…ungrateful. It’s…better,” he acquiesced, looking away.

            Varric huffed and Solas shifted. A cold wind picked up outside, rustling the tent as it coasted through the temporary camp of the now homeless Inquisition.

            “I would like to continue,” Solas said, drawing Fenris’s gaze again to his masked expression, “If it is all the same to you.”

            Fenris quirked an eyebrow. He was asking his permission? What was the point? “You’re asking for my consent?”

            “Indeed. You are awake now,” he answered, “You were not in the position to argue previously. I did ask the surgeon, however.”

            Fenris huffed. He glanced at his splinted upper arm, bruised under the wood and cloth still holding everything in place. “All right,” he murmured, trying to force his muscles to relax for a few moments before the inevitable.

            After a short nod, Solas walked between the two cots and sat directly beside Fenris after Varric shuffled over. He sat on the edge of the cot and bent over towards Fenris’s arm, examining the limb with keen eyes. The light fog of the elf’s breath washed over Fenris’s cold skin and it felt both pleasant and discomforting.

            With a short, loud groan, Varric turned and put both feet on the ground and reached for his crutch. “I think I’ll leave you to it. I can see the doc shooting me the stink eye all the way over here.”

            Fenris perked up and gave Varric an alarmed look. “Varric, you—.”

            “I did not mean to interrupt,” Solas admonished, looking at Varric as he moved away from the wounded elf. “You do not need to leave on my account. I can return later, Master Tethras.”

            Varric shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “No no, it’s fine. I can tell the doc wants to look at my leg again. Just don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

            The warrior frowned, “Varric, you’re wounded. He and I can leave.”

            Solas glanced at the other elf before drawing his gaze back to the dwarf. “That is an agreeable alternative.”

            Varric sighed, but with a smile. “Alright, alright. Just make sure you wear shoes this time, Broody.”

            Fenris rolled his eyes even as he moved to put his feet on the ground. Solas stood and briskly moved to the head of the cot to wait for his patient to follow. After pulling the boots over and stepping into them, pushing back the uncomfortable feeling of his feet being suffocated, the warrior stood slowly. Taking a moment to steady himself he glanced back to Varric who gave him a thankful grin, nodding mutely as the surgeon began her swift approach on the dwarf, resembling more of a bird of prey swooping in for the kill than an attendee checking on their patient. She was likely to lecture him for getting up at all.

            “We shant go far,” Solas murmured, looking pointedly at another cot nestled in the corner of the tent not a few paces away.

            Fenris nodded and made his way towards it, feeling conflicted over the warm but constricting fur wrapped around his feet and calves. As he turned to sit once he approached it, Solas came up behind him with one of the fur blankets and the fur coat that Fenris had left Haven with. With a pang, the warrior realized that it, his weapon, and his partially ruined clothes were all that he had left of his possessions.

            He took the fur covering from Solas and, after pulling his feet hastily out of the boots, draped it over him as he sat with his legs crossed again. The somniari placed the cloak beside him and sat on Fenris’s left side again, this time on the same cot. Turning himself to face the man, the mage began looking over his arm once more.

            Recalling Solas’s mana situation back at Haven, Fenris glanced over at the mage. His brow was pulled low to sit over his eyes, concentrating.

            “Your mana has returned so quickly?” Fenris hedged.

            The older man didn’t raise his eyes to meet him when he answered. “With some rest and meditation it returns quite swiftly.”

            Fenris hummed in answer, glancing over to Varric who was making an attempt at light joking with the surgeon, who didn’t seem to be very receptive to his attempts.

            “Are you concerned that I used your brands to replenish my reserves?” Solas asked, his tone guarded, but curious.

            Fenris pursed his lips. Of all the things he considered Solas to be, heartless and thoughtless were not among them. “No, I am not.”

            “Good. I would not use a comrade as a commodity,” he said, reaching for Fenris before adding, “I am going to touch you for a moment.”

            Fenris flexed the fingers in his other hand as Solas came in contact with him, the mage’s aura settling across his skin, aching on the lyrium lines on his arm even as his fingers attempted to avoid them. He was prodding midway up his forearm to test the swelling, more than likely, skimming right under the fabric of the splint. His fingers were cool, but warmer than the winter air around them and, despite the pain, the temperature difference was nice.

            The mage withdrew after a moment, the aching subsiding. “Are you ready?”

            “Yes,” Fenris answered, a little more irritated than he had intended. He took a breath as Solas raised his hand to hover over the splint before a soft, green glow grew under his palm, the energy sliding under the splint and through Fenris’s skin.

            The warrior hissed as his brands around the area flickered and burned, clenching his other hand into a fist to ease the stress from that side of his body. He did his best to concentrate any muscle tension over from his broken arm to his right, wanting to avoid any further unnecessary pain by stressing the damaged limb. He clenched his teeth and stared hard into the fur on his lap, trying to think of something that could distract him.

            “The magister that you all fought. Do you believe it?” he asked, the question coming out before he had decided if he truly wished to ask it.

            The mage didn’t respond at first, the threads of magic flitting quietly and quickly around his hand, the green lighting his face, his pupils drawn into a pinprick thanks to the bright light.

            “What he claims to be matters little. He aspires to taking over Thedas using whatever means necessary and has amassed a wealth of power, both military and magical, to do so.” He shifted his hand to the back of Fenris’s arm and the pain shifted, going deeper into the bone this time, repairing it from within.

            Fenris clenched his teeth and slowly rolled his right shoulder to ease the tension building up there, releasing his fingers before fisting the hand again. He closed his eyes for a few moments before looking towards the mage. He met his gaze before Solas looked away, looking to be contemplating something.

            “He was carrying an artifact during the fight,” he said at length, the magic from his hand shifting slightly in array and density. “It was reminiscent of foci that I have seen being used in ancient Elven memories in the Fade, orbs that were used to enhance and contain their power.”

            Fenris looked away and closed his eyes, pondering this. A magister, potentially ancient Tevinter still stuck in the glory days of his empire, was using an Elven orb to focus his power. It seems odd at first before remembering that Tevinter _did_ take over and destroy Arlathan according to the stories. Perhaps it was an artifact long buried that he somehow unearthed.

            “Why are you telling me this?” Fenris asked, baring the pain better now that it was more constant.

            “The rest of the Inquisition will eventually learn of the orb and its origins. The Herald seemed unconcerned, though I fear the potential repercussions.”

            He had a point. Though the enemy being from Tevinter would draw the most attention, and therefore put greater suspicion on the Altus, its source of power could be easily misconstrued by racist ignorance towards elves as well.

            “It is always much simpler to point fingers rather than think. Even with the Herald being lifted up as some holy figure, it’s too easy to assume elves are somehow behind the corruption,” Fenris grumbled, shaking his head a little bit. His hair was loosening fast, strands turning into locks as they fell from the train of interlocked hair down his back to hang around his face. He’d forgotten about loosening his braid earlier.

            “It could potentially affect all elves, Dalish and otherwise,” Solas said, seeming to have said it to gauge a reaction rather than to make a point.

            Fenris huffed through his nose, “My race aside, I feel little in common with most of ‘the People,’” he began, feeling like he’d said something like this before. A flash of a wide-eyed, innocent face covered in Dalish markings. Naïve, ignorant, dangerous.

            ‘ _It’s impossible to talk to you!_ ’

            ‘ _I don’t need to see it. I lived it._ ’

            He inhaled and shook his head, pushing the memory aside. That was the second time he’d gotten a memory while conscious. Why?

            “Fenris?”

            The somniari’s voice snapped him back to reality, never stopping his magic on his arm, but shifted it over. Clearing his throat, Fenris continued, “No Dalish have done me any favors, and calling City elves a collective culture is…incorrect. I feel no camaraderie with either.”

            Solas made a sound of recognition with a bit of something else. Agreement? “I see. Either way, it is best that you are made aware,” he voiced.

            Soon afterward the magic ceased, the burning ache receding from Fenris’s person. He sighed with obvious relief, loosening his right arm that had been tense nearly the entire time. He looked to his other arm as Solas reached to undo the splint. The warrior, alarmed, brought his right hand around and grabbed the mage’s, the corner of his eye twitching at the sharp spark of brands on his fingers meeting his aura.

            “What are you doing?” he demanded, looking Solas square in the face with a suspicious expression.

            The mage blinked, “You no longer require a splint.”

            “After less than 24 hours,” Fenris retorted, deadpanning.

            Solas pulled his eyebrows down as he slipped his hand from Fenris’s grasp. “It was a clean break, somehow undisplaced, and much of it was healed after my first time healing you.” He gestured loosely to the splint. “However, you are probably right to leave it on. Though healed, it may still be weak to re-breaking.”

            Fenris lowered his hand on to his arm and nodded. After a moment of silence between them he decided to speak. “Thank you.”

            Solas nodded with a small smile and pushed himself to stand. “ _Lasa halani_. I am pleased to have helped.” And with that, he turned and walked out from under the tent, heading towards the outskirts of the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh sorry it took so long. I got wrapped up in the spin-off fic. This was a slow-down chapter, so it was hard to get through at times haha.
> 
>  **Feedback Appreciated:** Since Fenris's arm armor was damaged basically to the point that replacement is the best option, this gives me the opportunity to create a new arm piece for him. I've recently drawn up a base to use for him [here](thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/140009382163/theres-the-base-ugh-im-in-pain-but-it-was) and I'll be using that to doodle outfits and stuff on him. If you have an idea or just a pro-tip you'd like to share for his new armor, I'd love to hear it! Post in the comments if you like. :) Hell, if you can draw, feel free to use my base, just make sure you link me.  
>  Examples of the current armor, pre-break: [Reference.](http://lyonface.deviantart.com/art/AU-Fenris-Armor-593196370) [Drawing.](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/135207434778/pencil-drawing-fuck-inking-scalemail-of-solas#notes)  
> \----  
> Elven is from fenxshiral, [a page I've linked before](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/post/111735086898/anethara-haren-sorry-for-being-a-bother-but).
> 
> Thanks as always to Onyona for setting aside time for little ole me. :') Comments and critique appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

            The company traveled for days through the Frostbacks as they attempted to find a new place to settle. Lavellan, along with the help of the somniari, was leading the settlement in what hoped to be a fruitful endeavor to a location that Solas purportedly knew about, somehow. No doubt he would say he found it in the Fade. Fenris snorted, walking up the slope in packed company with the boots given to him tightly strapped around his legs and feet. It seemed like his connection to the Fade was affording them untold opportunities, particularly in sticky situations that could otherwise result in their demise as an organization. How convenient.

            Even still, the mage had had his entire life before this to scour the Fade, so it wasn’t unreasonable that he could locate things much more easily than others may be able to. Finding a fortress that was essentially abandoned in the mountains wasn’t entirely odd, given how difficult this mountainous region could be to traverse at times, but it still gave Fenris some pause. Perhaps he happened upon it when they camped out here the first night? He wasn’t sure the Fade worked that way, not sure how that place worked in general. Did he really care to find out? He was already linked to it, and that was about as much involvement as he wanted.

            “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_!”

            He hadn’t heard Tevene in a while, the language causing a whisper up his spine that he tried to ignore. The Altus, he realized. He turned his head to locate him. The Tevinter was walking alongside the odd blond boy from before, the young man’s hat obscuring much of the mage’s shoulders and chest as he looked up at him.

            “But you said I could ask!” the younger man protested, sounding upset.

            Dorian grumbled under his breath, rubbing the worried wrinkle between his eyebrows as he averted his eyes from the boy. His curled mustache served to accentuate his grimace.

            “I really wish you would tell me,” the blond implored, turning his head away, his pouting lower lip just barely visible under the brim of his wide hat.

            Fenris turned away as the Altus attempted to shoo the boy from his prying. There was a myriad of topics the mage probably didn’t want to discuss, likely simple truths if the young man was making him defensive. Recalling his strange speech and behavior at the Chantry, Fenris wondered what kind of person the kid was, never minding how he was able to supply them with information about the Templars without being one himself. Was he a defector, despite being so young? Could you even leave the Order if you take your vows?

            “Hello.”

            Losing his stride for a moment, Fenris wheeled towards the voice to find the blond walking beside him. He hadn’t heard the crunch of snow as he approached; when did he get here? The elf wasn’t used to being caught off guard by approaches, it made him feel uneasy. He looked up at the boy, meeting a wide-eyed curious gaze.

            “Hello,” he answered, clearing his throat and composing himself.

            The young man looked at him for a moment before furrowing his eyebrows and cocking his head. “Who are you?”

            “You can call me Fenris,” the elf answered.

            It took a moment, but the boy responded with a nod, his confusion replaced by surety. “Okay, that makes sense.” After a moment, acting as if he remembered something, he added, “I am Cole.”

            Fenris nodded awkwardly and turned forward as they moved to the break of the slope, leveling out for a few hundred feet before falling back down again.

            “Fenris, what is a ‘slave?’ ”

            Stuttering again, the elf turned and shot Cole a suspicious glance. He must be joking. He leaned back to spy Dorian back where Cole had left him, rubbing at his temple with an exasperated expression. No, the Altus wouldn’t send the boy over to him. If anything, he’d likely dismissed the matter completely.

            “Why are you asking me?” Fenris grumbled apprehensively, turning forward again.

            Cole’s expression was nothing but naïve and eager. “Dorian won’t tell me, but I know that he knows,” he answered, huffing and crossing his arms.

            Fenris sighed. He supposed he’d do the Altus’s dirty work. He couldn’t leave the young man ignorant of something like this. “A slave is a person that is owned by another person,” he answered, not bothering to hide his irritation.

            “Oh, like a pet?” Cole asked and Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing.

            “Yes.” His answer was stiff. Flashes of the weight of a collar and lead pulling him forward, a brisk pat on the head, chains around his ankles and wrists as Danarius had him pour wine and stand at his side during conferences with other magisters. Constantly being touched. A pet, indeed.

            Cole frowned, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and innocence. “Are you a slave?”

            Fenris wrinkled his nose and growled, shooting a glare at the boy whose only reaction to the look was a surprised blink. “I am _not_ a slave.”

            The boy took a moment, as if processing this information, or thinking. He took a breath and his eyes widened before casting his eyes away, looking sheepish. “Oh…I’m sorry. I did not mean to bring back the hurt.”

            Narrowing his eyes, the elf glanced back at the blond as they began to descend down the slope. “Then do not ask me anything else.”

            Cole nodded, “It’s all right. I can fix it.” Just as Fenris shot him a confused look the boy nodded and murmured, “ _Forget_.”

            Fenris shuddered and shook his head, pausing a moment to rub at his forehead. He’d been…doing something. Pulling his face up to look forward, he glanced around to find himself walking alone, faces from the Haven commune moving slowly passed him. Figuring he’d simply gotten lost in thought, he shrugged it off and continued to walk with the crowd. He spied Lavellan climbing swiftly up a pointed ledge to look higher across the snowy peaks for their destination. She climbed steep rock better than anyone he’d ever seen, especially for an elf in shoes. Perhaps it was a Dalish thing.

            In less than a few hours, the fortress was in viewing distance, a massive fortress nestled deep in the mountains, undisturbed for years, potentially centuries. Fenris gazed in awe as the group rounded a point where they could get a good look at the massive structure. He could tell from here that the structure needed work, but for being as old as it was or seemed to be, it was in very good shape. He had never been in a fortress of this size or scale, and it dwarfed the buildings he had been in previously. Catching sight of the somniari, he noticed that Solas was staring attentively at the building as they marched, his eyebrows drawn in towards one another, his jaw set. It was oddly intense, a forlorn look that the warrior couldn’t quite place. Had he seen something about it in the Fade that put him on edge? Varric approached the mage and said something to him with a friendly expression, breaking Solas out of whatever he had been contemplating as he regarded the dwarf pleasantly; the evidence of his mood vanished entirely.

            Fenris set his mouth as they moved towards the long bridge connecting the pass they trudged on to their new homestead. The sun hadn’t been out long, and the stones were cold under his touch as he reached out to graze his good hand over the pillars at the start of the bridge. This place would serve as a much better defense than being out in the open at Haven. It would also give them a lot more room for all the people they harbored in their organization. They would be better sheltered, secure, and respected from the other powerful entities that were constantly turning their gaze on them.

            In the days that followed, the company spent most of its time attempting repairs on the old fortress as well as the grounds while housing and basic stations were handed out to everyone wanting to stay. Some people from Haven took this opportunity to change their roles within the organization, including officially crowning Lothriel Lavellan as the Inquisitor. It had already been accepted among most that she was the leader of the movement as well as its symbol, but the ceremony and official title made it clear not only within the Inquisition itself, but also to every nation in Thedas. Between her falling out of the Fade and her latest miracle of surviving Corypheus, there wasn’t a much better choice for their leader, and she had accepted that responsibility with a brave face.

            It was about a week or so into settling into their new fortress before Fenris felt comfortable trying his arm again. As Solas had said, it was fit to use, but the warrior was still wary about straining it too much, but did not delineate any of his efforts in restoring the place. He generally carried supplies back and forth for various groups of soldiers and workers and, once he was brave enough to remove his splint, he helped in basic repairs. For the first few nights he slept in places along the battlements, whose uses had not been allocated yet, or the tavern. He had walked the grounds and explored briefly, but had yet to really locate a place for him to sleep permanently. When he had asked Josephine if they were going to be assigned quarters she had smiled kindly and told him he could sleep where he wished. Soldiers and staff were being assigned living spaces, but those that accompanied Lavellan personally on away trips were given priority over where they wished to sleep. It felt strange for him, his choice being considered that highly. Varric had told him Hawke had valued his input as well, but their merry band didn’t have the kind of influence that the Inquisition did, not even close. His presence had real weight that stretched much further than his own self, and he wasn’t sure if the flutter in his chest at the thought was anxiety or excitement.

            Taking a break from helping the work effort, he made his way over the battlements through Cullen’s soon-to-be office and towards the rotunda close to the throne room. He had scoured most of Skyhold by now, attempting to find a place that he could call his residence. Since Josephine said he could choose, he wanted to pick a place that he felt comfortable in, preferably a small, secure area. When he entered the rotunda no one was present, but he noted the desk situated in the middle of the area with a few books stack on its surface and pieces of furniture along the walls. A section of scaffolding had been erected along one part of the wall that could be moved fairly easily, and the walls were rough with plaster. Someone had clearly already claimed this space. It was a heavy traffic area. He wondered who would be spending their time here. Spying a staircase, the elf made his way up, listening to the birds from the aviary higher up the rotunda cawing and chirping back and forth to one another echo along the walls.

            He emerged in a library that was already almost completely stocked up. He would likely come here often, certainly more than he had the Chantry in Haven. Spying a few tranquil mages as he peered over the books in the closest case, he picked up a voice.

            “Is this _really_ all they have on Tevinter? This is disgraceful!”

            Rolling his eyes at the loquacious mage’s outburst, the elf leaned over to see if he could spy him without being spotted. The Altus was pouring through the line of books on the outside of a windowed alcove, the light streaming in past him in beams, highlighting the dust that had yet to settle in the place. He had his arms crossed, one touching his upper lip in thought as he squinted at the spines of the tomes.

            Deciding to come another time, Fenris turned to make for the stairs before the same voice stopped him.

            “Ah, Fenris! Could I have a moment?”

            Steeling himself and not finding it in him to ignore the mage like he didn’t hear him, Fenris turned and shot the man an apprehensive look. Dorian was still standing at the case he had been studying, half way through a gesture that looked to beckon. When Fenris didn’t move, Dorian sighed dramatically and approached him instead, the lighting hitting his form, causing the broaches on his outfit to sparkle with enthusiasm before the shadow of the next case cast them in darkness again.

            Dorian stopped a few paces from the elf, wearing an apologetic look in his eyes, made larger by the dark make-up underneath. “I’d like to apologize for Cole’s behavior,” he offered amicably.

            Fenris cocked an eyebrow. Who? What behavior?

            Spurned forward by the elf’s narrowed eyes, Dorian continued. “If I had known he was going to ask you something like that, I would have just answered it myself,” he added quickly, looking for any change in Fenris’s expression.

            Thinking him completely daft, the elf turned to him, his white hair falling further off of his shoulder. “What are you on about, Altus?”

            Dorian looked skeptical now, shifting to a more defensive posture. He gestured out the window towards the mountain range. “In the valley a few days ago, Cole--,”

            “And who is Cole?” Fenris interrupted, gesturing minutely at the name.

            Blinking hard, the mage answered, “The blond boy, y’know, spindly with the big hat.” He pulled his hand in a quick circle atop his head. “Poor fashion sense.”

            Ah, the one from Haven that warned them about the Templars. “I have not spoken with him. You must be mistaken.” Fenris answered honestly.

            His shaped eyebrows rising in a perplexed arch, the mage faltered. “I…well,” he muttered, suddenly looking to be smothering his embarrassment. “I suppose I am.”

            Fenris waited a beat before straightening his posture. “Is there anything else?”

            Dorian shook his head quickly and turned to make his hasty exit. “No, no, I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough.”

            With a curt nod, the warrior padded down the steps back to the bottom of the rotunda. He was mildly surprised to see the somniari push through the door to the throne room carrying two rather heavy look metal pails. His sleeves were rolled up with some dark smudges on his fingers as he heaved them to sit beside the scaffold. Heaving a sigh, the mage straightened up and patted his hands together in an effort to rid them of the dark stuff staining them.

            Suddenly feeling like he was intruding, Fenris glanced around the room again before walking into it tentatively. Solas looked up towards the warrior, mildly surprised.

            “Fenris,” he greeted simply. He looked down at his blacked hands before reaching up to a rung on the structure and retrieving a dirty cloth.

            “Somniari,” Fenris answered.

            Without looking back, the mage remarked that Fenris’s arm looked well.

            Nodding, Fenris agreed.

            An awkward moment passed. Fenris cleared his throat. He felt compelled to say something. “Do you require assistance?”

            “No,” Solas said, casting a brief apologetic smile before hanging the rag back on the beams of wood in front of him. “Thank you.”

            Fenris nodded briskly before making his way towards the door to his left and exiting back on the ramparts. The flagstones sent a chill through his soles to his knees and he shuddered. He was happy to be rid of the boots, and the wind of the mountains was cut well by the walls of the fortress. There was a merciful lack of snow as well, and the elf was happy to finally be rid of the blasted footwear, at least for now.

            As he joined the group of workers he had been assisting before, filling up holes in one of the many rooms interrupting the walkway on the ramparts, he wondered idly what Dorian had been talking about. That boy had never approached him before, so what made him think they had actually spoken? And then apologized for it? It was all so strange. He was used to his past being brought up without being able to recall the instances, but something recent that he couldn’t recall bothered him. Then again, Dorian wasn’t an idiot, but there had to have just been a miscommunication of sorts, somehow. The elf still may forget the odd name or discussion, but not to the degree that it was completely gone from his mind. Even forgotten people he could vaguely picture. Shaking his head, he put it from his mind and lost himself in the pleasant toil of laborious work.

            The sun had begun to sink behind the snowy peaks arched high into the sky before Fenris noticed the time. He took a breath from the temporary rafting they all had constructed to get to the ceiling. Situating some boards under the set stone to keep it in place while the mortar dried, he slid from his perch and dropped to the ground with a thud. Groaning, he stood, his knees and shoulders creaking audibly, unhappy from the hours of labor intensive work that he’d engaged in for much of the evening.

            After a moment assessing the soreness in his limbs, he ran a hand through his hair and began to make his way atop the battlements towards the nearest way down to the main bailey. As he pushed through the rooms, he decided that he would bunker down in the cellar underground. He had gone below to check out if there were any remnants of the previous hosts in Skyhold to find dusty tombs and nothing much else besides the servant’s quarters and a well-built room to keep wine and alcohol. Considering his affinity for wine, it made about as much sense as any place.

            As he leaned down to take his sword up that he had left near one of the staircases down to the grounds, he suddenly noticed a form sitting along the rampart walls. He jumped, shocked and confused as to how he hadn’t noticed him before. His large-brimmed hat sagged on either side of his head and the torchlight glinted in orange off the metal incasing the crown.

            “Your lyrium, I can hear it,” the boy said, not looking at the warrior, his voice quiet but matter-of-fact. “It makes you sound distinct, different, but clear, like a choir.”

            Fenris took a moment before he recognized him, pushing away his strange speech for now, “Oh, you’re the boy that warned us about the attack.” It was odd that he mentions hearing the lyrium. The blond didn’t use magic back at Haven, at least none that he identified. So how could he possibly…?

            “Are you a templar?” he asked, seeing no other way that he could claim to sense lyrium like he insinuated. Besides, he had warned them about the attack, so it wouldn’t be odd that he may have already come in contact with the dreaded substance.

            “No, I am Cole,” he said simply, glancing over now through blond bangs. “Your lyrium makes you different, but it isn’t the only thing. Panicky, pronounced, placating. ‘He’ll punish me if I don’t obey.’ Breath falters, just a moment, then it burns. Screaming, scathing, pulling it from me in ribbons while the others watch. Chelsea grins chiseled as I’m chastised. ‘Let me present you all a wonderful spectacle!’ he bellows, fingers thrusting hard through my hair.”

            Fenris was trembling, the memory flashing through his mind as the young man recounted it perfectly. One of the many times he’d been used for mana at a gathering for Danarius, but…how? How the hell did he just…?

            “He created a dazzling array, lights in red and gold twinkling against their smiling faces. He looks at me and smiles, too. He’s proud. Why does it make me happy?” Cole continued, unperturbed by Fenris’s change in demeanor. His azure eyes took an earnest shine against the torch line along the walk way as the elf’s gut churned, not wanting to think about that again. Not wanting to remember the slave he was, how it felt. How he had clung to his master’s approval like a life line. He had been a pathetic thing, it—

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Cole rebuked gently, frowning.

            “Are you a demon?” Fenris asked, trying to cover the fear in his voice with venom, ignoring the attempt at comfort. How else could he explain that this thing had read his mind? Seen one of his memories? He clenched his fist and glanced at his sword, still lying on the ground near the creature. He wasn’t positive he could grab it in time if he attacked.

            “No, not a demon,” he answered with a defensive, if not disgusted, tone.

            The elf didn’t falter, “Then what are you? How could you— _see_ it?”

            “It is hurt, and it calls to me. But not just yours, everyone’s; pulsing to a dance, whispers weaving in and out of the rhythm. I hear when their steps break, and I help,” he answered, looking down at the lit bailey below, his head swiveling to eye the tavern.

            As if any of that was supposed to make sense? Fenris narrowed his eyes, continuing to regard him cautiously. He moved quietly to pick up his weapon, trying to get ahold of his rising panic. Cole made no move as he stared at the tavern. He seemed…honest, but not harmless, and with the ability to read minds, Fenris was certainly not going to trust him lightly. And he certainly didn’t like the things that he seemed to bring out of people

            Cole’s large hat turned to face toward the main keep of Skyhold, his mouth working minutely but the rest of his face obscured now. Fenris gripped his sword in hand when he spoke again. “He doesn’t know if he likes it or not, that you don’t use his name. Even so, he wants to know what it sounds like when you say it.”

            Fenris stopped, the light panic stopping to be replaced by apprehension. These thoughts were not his. Were they about him? And who was thinking them? Furthermore, that train of thought sounded…intensely private, intimate. Even if they were about him, he wasn’t sure he should be hearing them.

            He turned to the keep, trying to think of the people that were in there. No, he shouldn’t get distracted with this… _thing_ nearby.

            “Who are you talking about?” the elf asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He called few people by their names while around them, mainly on principle, and he had no inkling who might care enough to want him to address them by name.

            Cole opened his mouth as if to speak then stopped, closing it again. His blue eyes grew wide and he turned to Fenris. “I’m sorry, I cannot say,” he started as he began to shuffle around on his perch.

            Fenris gripped his hilt and adjusted it to a better position to use against the creature if he needed to, bending slightly at the knees.

            “Don’t worry,” Cole said, standing in the embrasure, “I won’t hurt you.” He held out his hand towards the elf and Fenris tensed, poised. “I…I said something wrong, but if I make you forget, I can fix—“

            “NO!”

            The boy faltered, startled by Fenris’s sudden roar. The elf had gone from the composure of an anxious warrior to a terrified, angry man in the blink of an eye. Fenris glared daggers at the boy, though he didn’t seem particularly put off by his glare as much as his voice.

            “No?” he asked, his brow furrowing, but his hand didn’t move.

            Fenris tried to collect himself enough to speak, “If you do me only one kindness, _Cole_ ,” Fenris started, trying to control his galloping heart rate, “You will not _erase_ my memories.” He hissed the word as if speaking it hurt him physically. He had spent all this time recovering what little he could of his past, through his own means, Varania, and Varric, only to meet a being that could undo all of that work and luck. This realization scared him stiff, and pissed him off in equal measure. Perhaps this is what Dorian was referring to, a conversation he had had with this thing before it had been wiped from his recollection.

            Cole lowered his hand slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared. “But I…I didn’t help. I want to help heal the hurting,” he stated plainly.

            “You can help by not taking my memory,” Fenris implored just as plainly, willing to arrange some kind of understanding. Everything within him was telling him to run and get away, but he knew that the creature would stay in Skyhold, and if he were to stay here as well, he needed an agreement. Otherwise, he might leave on one of their missions and never come back. If Dorian’s attempted apology indicated what he expected, he was already endanger of losing more of his memories to Cole, and just that thought made him want to bolt from the keep entirely.

            “Forgetting…hurts,” Cole said slowly, as if he were still struggling to grasp the concept. He lowered his hands to rest at his sides as he looked over the branded elf, looking to be listening. Finally, his eyebrows snapped up, recognition coming to his face. “Oh, I see! Forgetting makes you feel like falling! Fumbling, floundering in the dark, hearing that there’s light but never seeing it. Always feeling incomplete; a scattered cloud broken by wind!”

            Fenris felt uncomfortable and exposed again, particularly by the unnerving happy tone the thing had taken now. The blond grinned with excitement.

            “Don’t you see? We’re the same!” he implored, gesturing from himself to Fenris, and then back to himself, “You don’t remember yourself, and neither do I!”

            Fenris set his jaw tightly, his head beginning to spin from the odd speech the boy continued to use along with where this conversation was headed. He did mention that he didn’t know what he was… No! For all he knew this was simply another trick of a demon. It all could be. He couldn’t let supposed similarities between them sway him now.

            “Good,” he mumbled finally, slowly hoisting his sword to his back, “Then we have an agreement. You don’t erase my memory, and I don’t kill you, for now.” He narrowed his eyes at the threat, attempting to level it against the young man as sincerely as he could muster.

            Cole’s eyes widened for a moment as he clenched and unclenched his fist a few times. Finally he nodded and turned to sit back on the edge of the walkway with his back to the elf, as Fenris had found him before.

            The elf watched him for a moment, weary to turn his own back to him, but eventually turned and headed down the steps. As he crossed the main bailey, he glanced up at the stairway leading to the main hall and the throne and attempted to pull his mind away from what had just transpired. From the wine cellar he could reach the gardens and the banquet hall quickly and efficiently. If the Inquisitor needed him, he would be a brisk walk away. Since his belongings had been burned back at Haven, he would have little to clutter the cellar if she wished to use it for any reason.

            As he made his way up the steps, wishing for a quick bath, he spotted Varric by a table near another entry to the rotunda. The dwarf glanced up from his candle light and a stack of papers and grinned at the elf as he passed.

            “Heading to bed, elf?”

            Fenris nodded, slowing in his pace for a moment.

            Varric continued in a low conspiratorial voice, “Well, look alive in the next couple of weeks, all right?”

            Frowning, the tired warrior wasn’t in the mood to play along with any joke. “Why?”

            “There’s someone I want you to—well,” he paused and chuckled under his breath, looking almost apologetic.

            “Someone I want you to meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Festis bei umo canavarum_ \- You will be the death of me  
>  \--
> 
> Thanks to Onyona as always! Comments and critique are appreciated and encouraged! :)


	11. Chapter 11

            The early afternoon sun pressed itself as far as it could reach through the alcove windows of the library wing, casting the framed tomes in a soft pale light that illuminated the circular room in an effort to assist those peering down at a page or document. Specks of dust and debris still hovered in the gentle air of the place, and Fenris was inclined to believe that it would never truly settle until the Inquisition had dislodged itself from the building and left it back to the still, empty cold that the castle had been accustomed to for centuries upon centuries before their arrival. The ivory-topped elf sat in a flat-cushioned, creaky chair that leaned against an area of hardbacks largely comprised of information and references to the censorship of the Chant of Light and the conspicuous absence of Shartan, the elf that is widely known amongst the elves of Thedas at having assisted Andraste, despite the Chantry denying his involvement . Some younger sisters even denied his existence all together, likely following instruction from their authority. The effects of censorship were no more evident than the firm cover-up of such a figure, and watching his existence slowly disappear as one follows the ranks of the organization from high ranking to new members is both disheartening and insightful.

            The Inquisitor had left Fenris largely at Skyhold for a time while she had his armor remade, using the smithing tools present and a few new pieces of equipment brought in by a person with the most ridiculous set of skills he’d heard of: a dwarf who studied magic. Dagna was a very sweet woman, despite her sometimes overwhelming curiosity and her penchant for staring a little too intently at Fenris’s brands while barraging him with questions. He’d only stayed down there long enough to take measurements for his new armor before leaving the rest to Lavellan to escape the inquiries. Dwarves did understand lyrium better than any mage, but he had no real intention of going to Dagna for advice or assistance in regards to them; not like he needed to know more than he already did, surely. They amplified his physical abilities, gave him some skills that mages normally could only access, and that seemed to be about it. He knew they had a sound and that magically-intuned people could hear him when he was near them, mages and templars alike. Did he really need to know more?

            The elf frowned as he stared at the words on the pages in front of him, the book sitting in his lap and anchored up to catch the light despite his eyes looking straight passed them. That spirit, though, it had heard his brands as well. He saw Lavellan talking to it a few days ago along the rock wall that separated the main courtyard from the lower bailey, approaching it as if it were just a human child with unruly blonde hair and a ridiculous hat. She knew better, he’d overheard her discussing it with some of her companions, but her acceptance of the thing did little to quell his nerves. It had been able to hear his memories, thoughts that were his own and events that he could recall. It was unworldly, but perhaps there was a chance that it could see beyond whatever barrier had been placed on him to keep his memories in check. He shuddered at the very idea of even considering asking its help, but his memories were who he was. Surely he’d do what it took to get them back, would he not? They were important to him, almost a decade of his life just missing. He needed that information. Having had that irritating dream with the mansion and the figure encased in light again last night was doing nothing for his patience.

            He heard the creak of one of the doors in the first floor of the rotunda, the hinges echoing their way up to just barely make it to the library, his keen elf ears the only ones hearing the sound, apart from the other elves in the library. He stole a quick glance over at Fiona who was busying herself organizing a stack of books to be shelved close to the stairway. He almost always saw her here; why was she not in the Circle tower with her fellow mages?

            “Inquisitor,” Solas greeted, his voice closer to the library than it normally should have been. Fenris frowned, curious, and abandoned his book that he hadn’t been paying attention to for the better part of an hour. He slipped from his chair and sat against the railing that lined the edge of the library walkway, peering down into the open room below.

            The mage was sitting on the movable scaffolding that he had noticed his first time walking through, painting generously over the plaster that he had been patting with charcoal when Fenris arrived from training earlier this morning. He had been wholly engrossed in his work at the time and neither had spoken, Fenris not wishing to disturb him and Solas likely not noticing him at all. It was the second painting he’d started in the hall, a great silver and red eye staring omniscient against a backdrop of sharp golden lines. Forest green backed the Inquisition’s eye and the elf was working on what appeared to be wolves in the red sections beneath it, the eye fanning down as if it were shining on their coats. His colors were rich and stark, perfect for his fairly simple, blocky shapes.

            “I wanted to apologize about Mihris. Is that how the Dalish normally treat you?” Lavellan asked from somewhere below him. Her tone was something close to embarrassed or aghast, near the center of the room. Fenris leaned towards the railing to look below, spotting her shock of auburn hair against a brown vest and white scarf, her arms crossed as she leaned against the center desk, facing back towards the entry way to the throne room.

            Fenris grimaced minutely, a flash of sharp distrusting eyes framed by dark, inverted vallaslin flashing over his memory.

            “Your apology is appreciated, albeit unnecessary, and yes, I am accustomed to being treated as such by the Dalish I have encountered, you notwithstanding.” Solas answered from his perch, not turning to face her as he adjusted his sleeve, rolling the beige sweater up to his elbows to avoid them being stained by paint.

            Lothriel scoffed as she shook her head, bringing her hand to her face. “That was completely uncalled for, calling you a derogatory term in the same breath she used to ask for our help. There are some in my clan I could see doing that, but many would at least have the decency to keep their tongues in check.” She sighed, Fenris feeling a strange sense of déjà vu from the description before she continued, “I still don’t like it, but if that is all you’ve experienced, I can’t fault you for what you think of my people.”

           “They play pretend while I walk the Fade. Any attempts that I have made to educate them on what I’ve seen, the memories I’ve witnessed that could help them, have been met with similar disdain. I appreciate your willingness to listen, _da’len_ , but you are unfortunately an exception to that rule,” Solas told her, glancing back for a moment but quickly returning to his work.

            _Memories_. The word stuck in a way that it never really had before. The fade-walker could see memories. Fenris blinked and turned away as the two elves continued talking, pulling back his eavesdropping for a moment. He touched the juncture of his nose and his brow as he considered this. Why hadn’t it struck him before that the mage witnessed recollection and not history as it simply was? Does that mean feelings and memories just…existed in the Fade? Ready to be observed or experienced by someone would could…read it, like a book? He glanced at the hardback he’d left open in his seat before turning back to the rotunda, the somniari finishing up a fading red gradient with quick and efficient strokes, recounting something he’d witnessed at Lavellan’s behest.

            “While we camped in the Hinterlands, I watched the Hero of Ferelden and her companions assist Redcliffe as it was swarmed by hordes of the undead. The villagers, terrified and praying, holed themselves inside the Chantry and listened to the raging battle outside. The clanging of metal on metal, whistle of blade through night air, and crackle and burst of magic as the warriors fought for their lives,” he began, pausing as he tilted his head at a mistake in the golden shape of a wolf’s head that would mirror the other one he had already completed. He dabbed his brush and corrected it before continuing, “One villager recalled the scene only by noise and fear, the cold air inside the Chantry seeping into the bones as they trembled, wondering if they would live to see the sunlight once more. A soldier remembered the Hero as deadly and efficient; her teamwork with her companions something he both envied and feared, hoping in the end that the elf would be good on her word and help the Arl. When he was cut down with the blinding pain of a sword to his gut, he heard her call to heal him. A green aura enveloped him as he was healed by her friend, the sun just about to break the horizon as the swarm ended. He was sure, then, that she was truly a hero worth praising and that she was meant for great things.”

            Fenris was up and walking before he’d really registered that he was moving as he listened to the mage recount his experience, watching what others had seen and felt only a few years prior. As much as he hated to admit it, magic and the Fade were likely the only ways that he could gain his memories again beyond the occasional lucky night where he would dream a memory and remember it in the morning. Between everyone in Skyhold, Solas was the best resource that he could utilize to get them back, his affinity for both simultaneously repelling and beckoning. In either case, he was a far more reliable and trusting source than the spirit.

            He brushed past the altus as he pulled a book from outside the alcove he tended to haunt, Fenris rolling the sleeves of his dark shirt up his forearms as he descended down the stairs. He pushed open the door once he reached it as Lavellan finished her thought, not bothering to stop for the interruption.

            “…is an inspiration for elves everywhere. I’m sure some Dalish look down on her for being a city elf, but even we have to recognize what she stands for in terms of the People.” Lavellan turned to meet Fenris’s eyes, and he hesitated, realizing that he had not only interrupted the conversation, but was eavesdropping to begin with. He regretted not considering his entrance a few moments longer. She smiled regardless, the scar on her upper lip curling in a way that was now incredibly familiar. “What’s up, Fen?”

            Fenris heard the creak from the wooden structure as Solas likely turned towards him, but he kept his eyes on Lavellan. “Forgive me for intruding,” he started, finishing rolling up his right sleeve, his forearm perpendicular to the floor. “I can come another time.”

            The Inquisitor promptly shook her head, as he suspected she would. “Nonsense! Just shooting the shit, bothering our resident artist. Do you have something to ask?”

            He nodded and turned to Solas, the bald elf’s back towards them again as he met the wolf’s scruff to the golden edge separating it from the rest of the painting. “Somniari,” he announced, pausing as the painter brought his brush away from the fresco, listening. “You witness memories in the Fade of all time periods. Could my lost memories be experienced the same way?”

            Solas tilted his head for a moment, considering, the sunlight shifting along the crown of his head. After a few moments he resumed his tight, short strokes along the edge of the wolf before starting broader ones to fill in the shape. “That is a possibility. Do you believe the spell the magister used to have separated your memories from yourself?”

            Fenris blinked, confused, “Does it matter?”

            “There is a difference between your memories being taken from your being and the memories being blocked within you,” the other elf explained, “If they had been taken or removed from your mind to be independent from your spirit, for example, the best way to recover them would likely be scouring the Fade, looking for spirits whom had found them or stumbling across them on on your own.”

            Fenris shuddered at the notion, the idea of having to rely on beings as flighty and strange as Cole completely unnerving him. There had to be another alternative. “Would that not take time?”

            “An immeasurable amount, I’m afraid,” he answered, his tone flat. “You would be relying on luck primarily, and it would take time to learn how to converse with spirits alone before attempting to have them share what they know with you.”

            Fenris huffed and ran his fingers through his loose hair. “And what about the other option?”

            Solas straightened his back and pulled back his right shoulder, stretching from the position he’d been in for who knows how long. He turned towards Fenris now, his face a mask of indifference, though there was an annoyed arch to the ends of his eyebrows. They _were_ disturbing him, after all.

            Fenris set his mouth and kept his emerald gaze firm, not wavering from the mage’s cerulean. If he wanted him gone, he wouldn’t parse words.

            Solas swiveled his head back to the painting and looked at the golden wolf in front of him before sighing and dabbing his brush in a brighter color. “A mage would need to know the details of the spell in order to unravel it. Spells cast on the mind are very delicate, as I’m sure you can understand.”

            The ex-slave understood, at least as far as he was able. He frowned and looked at the table in the center of the room, Lavellan still perched on the edge, one of the shards she had collected glowing faintly with books and papers stacked unceremoniously around it. His brands had been the product of years of research, just as the time magic Alexius had used at Redcliffe had been.

            “Back in…where was it, Fenris? In Tevinter?” Lavellan prompted, looking to have a thought. She wore a bashful smile at having forgotten the city where Fenris lived. He didn’t really mind so much.

            “Minrathous, the capital,” he answered.

            She made an affirmative gesture and nodded, “Right, anyway, back in Minrathous, is the mansion still there?”

            Fenris blinked and shrugged unceremoniously. “I left it as it was. Unless those that still occupied it at the time when I left did something to it, it’s unlikely to have changed. It’s probably occupied by another magister now.”

            Lothriel made a face and considered that information for a moment before speaking. “I could talk to Leliana about potentially getting any research notes back that he made, if they still exist. Or perhaps Josie could talk to the magistrate about handing his research over to us since he’s dead.”

            Fenris blinked, surprised that they had been on the same wavelength. Yes, those were two good options that would likely result in them acquiring that information. “I would suggest using our spies. Whoever currently owns the estate is unlikely to be willing to give up that information if they also purchased the rights to it. The senate is unlikely to be able to help you in acquiring them, or willing for that matter.”

            Lavellan nodded and pushed herself from the desk, standing straight up. “I’ll go speak with Leliana now. I’ll let you know once I have an update.”

            As she turned the leave, a recollection flashed through Fenris’s mind. A flash of red hair, splayed in rivets underneath her as they became soaked with blood. A gasp as regret swam in her eyes, dying underneath him. “Wait,” Fenris called, the Inquisitor halting in her stride towards the staircase. “Varania. She tried to undo the magic before she died. There might be research from her in the mansion as well.”

            Lothriel nodded, her smile more serious now. “Of course, I’ll be sure to mention it.”

            Shaking the image from his mind, the warrior sighed. “Don’t rush on my account, Inquisitor,” Fenris started but she cut him off with a curt nod.

            “No point telling me to slow down, Fen, you know that,” she told him and with a wink, she turned and left the rotunda, sending a gesture of farewell towards Solas that he likely didn’t see.

            Shifting his stance to a more relaxed posture, the elf carded his fingers through his hair again, scratching his scalp. It really was fighting a losing battle trying to get her to rest. Despite her obvious fatigue at times, she would likely keep going until she fell from exhaustion if she didn’t have people to force her to stop every so often. The Inquisition was lucky to have a leader willing to fight for it at the risk of her own health, in any case.

            As Varania attempted to creep into his thoughts again, the warrior looked for something to distract him. Spying the papers strewn across the desk, Fenris checked the mage to see him back to painting, likely lost in the headspace that artists tend to when they concentrate on their methods. Quietly, he approached the desk, his eyes curiously perusing the open book sitting atop some of the parchment. It was on the Fade, no true surprise there. He found that, though the book was in Common, he still had issues attempting to really extract anything of value from it. There was far too much magical jargon used for him to glean anything useful from the marked pages. Looking closer, he could make out notes written in the margins that didn’t match the script of the notes on the desk. They were faded, and in Common, and the elf wrinkled his nose. What self-respecting scholar would deface a text like this?

            Turning his attention to the notes, the script was not in Common. They were likely from the somniari, written in Elven, with deft, thin strokes. He didn’t recall any elf he knew writing in Elven, it was always in the trade tongue, wasn’t it? Spotting a crude doodle in the corner of one sheet signed by Sera, the elf shook his head. She truly had no desire to do anything with Solas other than antagonize him.

            “Find something amusing?”

            Fenris jerked his head up and looked towards Solas, the mage now on the ground from the structure he’d been anchored to for the better part of the day. His utensils had been moved to the floor and he was preparing to shift the platform back to cover his previous painting, moving it out of the way for him to finish up the current piece.

            Feeling a bit guilty for snooping, again, and interrupting his work, Fenris pressed his lips together and walked to the other side of the structure, bracing his shoulder under one of the horizontal beams.

            Solas nodded and, at his word, they lifted the scaffolding and quickly moved it over, the planks groaning over them as it was raised not far off the ground. As they set it down, Fenris turned to look at Solas’s progress, straightening his posture as the mage passed him. He had well over half completed and Fenris touched his lip thoughtfully, wondering how early in the morning he had to begin in order to have made this much progress by now. The wolves didn’t look finished, but the eye certainly was, the smell of his paints now more potent than that of the plaster he had set that remained mutable.

            “You are very skilled,” Fenris complimented, his voice feeling too loud for the space, his low baritone echoing in the chamber. He cleared his throat, rubbing at his neck as Solas pulled a stool underneath the first wolf he had painted.

            “Thank you,” the painter responded, a prideful quirk on his lips. “Do you paint?”

            Fenris scoffed and, at a droll look from Solas as he took his palette in hand, cast his eyes away from the apostate. “Apologies. I was not taught anything artistic, nor did I have any chance to learn.”

            “You have plenty of time now, to learn, if you wish,” Solas reasoned, perching easily on top of the seat, standing to begin painting the eye of the left wolf.

            Fenris shifted a thin black eyebrow upwards, “Are you offering lessons?”

            Solas laughed, stealing a quick amused glance back at the warrior before returning his attention to the piece. “I would not recommend it unless you already have some experience in drawing or painting. I have been told I can be rather…meticulous.”

            “You attempted to teach before?” Fenris asked, cocking his head to the side. He tried to imagine when that would have happened.

            Solas froze his brush over the painting for just a moment before meeting the bristles to the plaster, answering with a tension in his shoulders, “I have attempted to bestow all types of knowledge, only to be rebuked at every turn. No matter what I tell them of Elvhen art, poetry, politics, architecture, magic, the Dalish want nothing to do with it if it doesn’t fit neatly with their myths and legends.” After a pause he added, “The city elves know so little that they are better off not knowing at all.”

            Fenris narrowed his eyes, but didn’t disagree, at least not initially. “Knowing we were once a people of a sprawling empire who were supposedly immortal means nothing when you’re chained to a floor, wondering when your next meal will be.”

            The tension eased out of his shoulders as Solas continued to paint. His voice was lower with less of an edge. “Precisely.”

            “However,” the warrior continued, leaning against the scaffold as he looked over the other painting Solas made. It was largely orange, featuring the explosion at the Conclave in orange rays and triangles. “City elves are more likely to believe you if you tell them what you know, given that many in Ferelden consider the Dalish to be figments of people’s imaginations. If you convince them of your authority, your words are less likely to be wasted.”

           Solas paused again, his brow low as his eyes looked through the wall into the distance, considering his words. “What good will it do them? What could that knowledge possibly bring to their impoverished lives? To know of a history you can never return to, that the elves have lost forever in a world most cannot begin to fathom; how would they react?” He turned to Fenris, the color in his eyes shifting with emotions that were kept from baring themselves in his face proper, blue and grey shuddering together in an unsteady blend.

            Fenris’s muscles stilled, not anticipating such an intense emotion from the mage. His heart shuddered a moment in his chest, his shoulders drawing up, tight. After recovering enough to speak, he answered, “If he seeks stability or hope, perhaps it would grant him that.”

            Solas shook his head and turned his eyes away, the warrior breathing easier now that that gaze was no longer on him, but irritated that he was being dismissed so quickly. “It will only bring him despair,” the mage declared.

            Fenris frowned. For someone who professes to know much, Solas was incredibly stubborn. He pretends to know how others will react before doing anything at all. “You’re giving up,” he said, the wood creaking as his weight shifted from the structure to his feet. “You think they won’t listen, so you convince yourself that they don’t need to hear it.”

            The mage dropped his hand holding the brush and turned to glare at Fenris, temporarily focusing his attention fully towards Fenris now, the painting temporarily set aside.

            The warrior was prepared for that look this time and set his mouth. “If you keep losing, you fight until you win.”

            The mage shook his head and exhaled sharply, his eyebrows drawn low. “You do not win every battle by fighting—,”

            “And you win none by giving up!”

            A silence settled between them, the two men searching each other’s expression, waiting for the other to continue. The air felt stiff and uncomfortable, each trying to gauge the other and search for some hidden meaning. Fenris understood the desire to stop fighting, that failure would be inevitable. To be caught after every escape attempt, knowing he’d been away from his master once for a decade only to return… But previous failings did not mean that failure was inherently inevitable.

            “The only person holding you back is yourself, somniari,” he said, heaving a breath as he tried to break the tension, if only in himself.

            Solas seemed to be grappling with what his next course of action would be, his teeth set together tightly. He breathed through his nose slowly, straightening his back into a proud arch before exhaling softly. A short glance at the floor as he muttered, “That platitude would ring hollow from anyone else.” Bringing his eyes back up, he met Fenris’s again, this time with no anger. “And what do you suggest?”

            “Teach them,” Fenris answered simply, shrugging as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Lavellan is not the only elf willing to listen; there are more.”

            Solas looked hard at the other elf, attempting to piece together something in Fenris’s answer before turning back to the wall. “Perhaps you’re right.”

            Fenris nodded. As Solas changed brushes and dabbed the new, clean brush in yellow paint, mixing it with another color, he decided to make his exit.

            “I have disturbed you long enough,” the warrior said before dropping his hands and turning to leave. Solas’s smooth tenor gave him a moment’s pause.

            “If you are in need of anything, do not hesitate.”

            Resuming his stuttered stride, Fenris nodded minutely before pushing through the door to the main throne room. As he shut the door, he nearly tumbled over Varric in the process, the dwarf standing just outside the door looking to be making his way to the rotunda.

            “Elf! Just who I was looking for!” he greeted, a wide grin on his face. “Are you busy?”

            Fenris pushed back a few locks of his hair that fell over his shoulder as he blinked, surprised. “No, why?”

            “Great! I’d like to introduce you to someone, if you don’t mind,” Varric told him, crossing one arm over his chest and moving out of the warrior’s way.

            Fenris didn’t much care for that weird secretive look in the dwarf’s smile, but he knew better than to ask. Whatever it was, he wanted it desperately to be a surprise. His curiosity seemed to be doing him favors today, so why not? “Lead the away, Varric.”

            With a swift nod and a squeak of his boots, Varric lead the elf towards the entrance of the throne room, passing a few nobles and dignitaries in their high-collared waistcoats and fluffy, layered gowns that were sure to be far too hot for them in the lit and warmed entry way. As the pair made their way through the entrance, Fenris filling his lungs with the mountain air, they padded their way down the staircase and shuffled through the grass towards the Tavern.

            Recalling what Varric had told him earlier that week, Fenris inquired, “Is this who you were referring to?”

            “It is,” Varric answered, his tone too easy to not be forced, considering his practically bouncing steps. He was far too excited about all this, and though Fenris was certainly interested, his uneasiness only served to mount. Anxiety poked at his innards, riling him up by anticipation alone.

            Varric nodded to a few patrons that greeted him with sloshing ale and flushed grins as the pair made their way through, briskly moving towards the stairs.

            Fenris hated the silence. “Are they in the tavern?”

            “Relax broody, we’re almost there,” Varric chided, moving his way up to the second floor. Fenris did a quick sweep of the patrons, all unknown faces to him as the dwarf made a wide turn and went up the next set of stairs to the third floor.

            The second floor had been quieter than the first, but the third was dead quiet, no one moving up here except one or two patrons sitting in corners whispering to one another. Fenris spotted the spirit in the corner of the room sitting on the arm of a couch and watching a small finch eat berries from the window sill. His hat was sitting in the couch seat behind him and his wave blonde hair was flat against his head where the crown of the hat clung to him.

            He looked up as they passed, meeting Fenris’s eyes immediately. “He’s here,” he said cryptically.

            Fenris grimaced as Varric shushed him. “C’mon Kid, don’t ruin the surprise!”

            Cole made a face before turning back to the bird who was looking at him curiously.

            The elf pulled his eyes away as Varric made his way through the last door that lead to the ramparts outside, the pair traveling over them to the likely unfinished room at the far side. Fenris rolled his tight shoulders and squeezed his fingers against his palm, trying some way to alleviate the continued prickling in his gut as it built. That spirit didn’t help matters either, but he should be used to that thing being needlessly strange and unnerving by this point.

            “You’re killing me, Varric,” Fenris grumbled as they walked through the room, still featuring a hole in the wall with downed planks and debris. He made a mental note to try and get it cleaned up with a group of soldiers at some point.

            Varric shook his head, opened the door and turned his head to a lower area with a short staircase. The elf huffed as Varric outstretched his arm to the side with a smile, gesturing for Fenris to go first.

            As he glided quickly down the stairs, Fenris ran his green gaze over the small outcrop until it laid on a figure in the corner. Dark hair and a black and red robe with gratuitous spikes and layered pieces on his left arm. Leather strapped a metal piece to his chest as heavily muscled right arm reached for a cup in front of him. He was facing away, but the sight froze Fenris in place.

            Those shoulders, those arms, even that angle of his face. He knew it. He knew how it all looked, tense and angry, shuddering in despair, surrounded by magic, reeling with laughter and drink. He knew how it felt to brace himself on those shoulders, the plains of his back pressed against his in a fight, his breath on his neck, running his fingers through that black hair. It was longer then.

            Varric was saying something as the figure turned, trying to introduce Fenris to him. He already knew him. Ferelden born. A helping hand. A man of respect. An angry kiss in the dark. A lonely son.

            A figure encased in light.

            Fenris blinked as he tried to move but his limbs were on the precipice of giving out, his brands flickering a faint blue as Varric’s voice finally made it to his brain.

            “Meet, well not really meet but you know what I mean. Anyway, the Champion of Kirkwall, Serra—,”

            “ _Hawke_.”

            The champion tensed and stood in a flash, the chair he had been sitting in scooting away from him in such a rush that it nearly toppled over. He wheeled to face them, his expression a perfect mixture of shock and surprise, his golden eyes shining like they could illuminate all on their own. A gaze that intimidated his foes and instilled courage in his friends.

            If Fenris was a friend, why was he shaking?

            “Fenris…” Hawke muttered, struck completely off guard as Varric muttered something about ruined introductions.

            Fenris took a breath, like he was drowning in a thin atmosphere at the tip of a mountain’s peek. The memories were there, a feeling of familiarity he couldn’t anchor on to anything tangible, anything substantial. Like what happened when he met Varric on the Storm Coast, but far more intense. The elf extended his arm and braced himself on the wall against the stairs he’d descended, thrusting the hair that had fallen over his shoulder behind him. It wasn’t helping him breathe.

            “I…” Hawke started, and the effect his voice had on Fenris was not something he could untangle, not in this state. The Champion cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he admitted, his tone clipped, guarded.

            “We met up with him on the Storm Coast. Apparently he’d been looking for me,” Varric explained helpfully before taking a concerned step towards Fenris. “You okay, elf?”

            Collecting himself to the best of his abilities, the lyrium no longer messing with his mind or his body, Fenris nodded and pushed himself from the wall, looking back at Hawke. He reflexively squinted, anticipating the beam of light to surround him at any moment and blind him like it always does. But this wasn’t a dream. This was real. He’d finally gotten the name out, finally gotten to see his face, but…now what?

            His eyes flickering over Hawke’s face as he finally spoke. “You…cut your hair.”

            Hawke blinked, his almost nonexistent eyebrows rising over his forehead before he sputtered and burst into laughter. It rolled over him, shaking his entire frame as he buckled over and covered his eyes, all the tension rushing from his spine in an instant.

            “Are you _both_ going crazy?” Varric exclaimed with a huff, rolling his eyes as he shook his head at Fenris, then Hawke.

            The dark-haired human shook his head as he reeled back his guffaw into something closer to a chortle, forcing his posture back up. He wiped at his eyes as he looked to Fenris again, his grin all teeth.

            “I just…of all the things you’d say to me…” he muttered in disbelief.

            The awkwardness was settling in now as Fenris’s unease ceased to ebb further in the hollow of his chest. “I…what do I normally say?”

            At a confused arch of Hawke’s eyebrow, Varric briefly recounted what they were able to piece together about what happened to Fenris when he’d left Kirkwall. Realization slowly came over Hawke’s features in a wave followed by recognition as he seemed to recall something while Varric wrapped up the tale of his flight from Danarius. He turned to Fenris then, those eyes pinning him to the ground and the elf _hated_ it. What was this effect on him, and why?

            “You’ve escaped for good then?” he asked.

            “There is no magister to claim me as property, no,” Fenris answered in a tone more irritated than he had intended.

            Hawke took a deep breath and sighed, rolling his shoulders back before offering a little grin, perching himself on the table as he reached for his drink.

            “Then I’m glad to see you again, Fenris,” he finally said, steering the conversation into something more familiar, more normal.

            That expression, nearly a smirk, wrinkling a faded scar that scored the bridge of his nose and his brow; it set Fenris’s heart aflame and every moment he spent here, every breath he took carrying his scent, only fanned them to grow further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onyona is amazing and a timely editor. <3
> 
> Thanks again to the encouragement and critiques you all have been sending me! This chapter was a doozy! If you want to know what Hawke looks like, click the links below!
> 
>  
> 
> [Garret Hawke's progression through DA2, Acts 1, 2, and 3 respectively.](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/140610807338/the-minor-evolution-of-my-mage-mhawke-that-will)  
> [Garret Hawke in Dragon Age: Inquisition.](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/141966521758/ferelden-born-a-helping-hand-a-man-of-respect)


	12. Chapter 12

            Even without Varric in the party as a reminder of what happened, Fenris couldn’t find it in him to sit still. Lavellan had taken the party to rest at the Dalish camp for a time while she stocked supplies and tried to get information from the elves roaming inside the grounds. He’d originally stood near the Halla grove but was asked (demanded, really) to move away from them. His constantly stiff fidgeting was making the animals nervous, they said, and the last thing they needed were nervous horned beasts trapped between the camp and the cave wall behind them. As he stood now by one of the red aravels bordering the camp’s entrance, he crossed his arms and stared hard into the rushing, shallow creek that fed into a larger river downstream. The small fish darting constantly in random directions under the water’s surface illustrated an accurate parallel to his current mental state.

            He couldn’t get Hawke out of his head, and every time that human’s face crossed his mind his nerves lit up raw and frustrated. Varric’s presence had put the elf on edge at first back when he first arrived to Ferelden, but it had been nothing like this. Perhaps Varric’s friendship had been something akin to a background relationship or a friendship that was stable, and Hawke’s had been far more important and tumultuous to him in the decade he had lost. Despite that, he was clearly affected by the memories he could not witness or experience, and his agitation only made it more difficult to interpret. The unknown only made him more uncomfortable, and his discomfort only pushed him to ask more questions. Was it anger? Was it pain? Was it affection?

            Shaking his head, the elf pulled his braid over his shoulder as his eyes swiveled towards the sound of splashing water. A halla, silver twisted horns shimmering against the high sun, galloped through the shallow bed of water towards the rocky mountains behind the camp, meeting up with a few other halla that were going in the same direction. Solas knelt at the edge of the water, cupping his hands into the clear stream to splash it against his face, dragging his longer fingers over his head as he did.

            The entire trip here had been relatively tense, the atmosphere rubbing off on Lavellan and Blackwall as they trudged around the Exalted Plains with a pair of stiff, anxious elves. A day or so after meeting with Hawke, Lavellan had agreed to help Solas locate a friend of his that had been captured here in the Plains. He had heard them in a dream, he had said, and they were likely being tortured for information.

            Although it shouldn’t have surprised him in the least, Fenris had been rather shocked to find that Solas’s “friend” was, in fact, a spirit from the Fade. They were looking for mages that had summoned it against its will, Lavellan had explained to him as they rode on horseback, so hopefully they wouldn’t be too difficult to find in the Plains. She had been here once before, on a trip Fenris did not accompany her on, so she knew the layout of most of the western area fairly well, so hopefully something that strange would be easy to find. As much as Cole unnerved Fenris, imagining a creature like him being tortured at all felt incredibly wrong, and with that mental image he was able to reconcile the effort of rescuing an ethereal being he believed had little free will of its own.

            Solas, meanwhile, had said almost nothing the entire trip, his posture ramrod straight and stiff, teeth clenched with attentive eyes darting around once they had reached the forward camp. At the camp, Lavellan had found robes that she believed benefitted him better for casting and defense, though they were Dalish robes. Despite him being almost certain Solas was far too on edge and agitated to agree, he had acquiesced. Seeing the mage in the light green, dual paneled robes of the elves that he denounced as being a part of his People as he stood near an encampment of them was almost funny. Perhaps they’d laugh at the irony and almost unintentional insult at a later date, but right now no one was very interested in jovial banter..

            As the mage stood from the bank and took a deep breath to calm himself down, Blackwall shuffled from his stance against the other aravel when Lavellan broke away from her conversation with the Keeper. Upon realizing that she was going deeper into the camp, however, the Warden relaxed again, crossing his arms as he looked lazily over the landscape, clearly bored and in want of continuing forward. Blackwall had tried to break the ice a few times but had given up on the two brooding elves, favoring to speak to Lavellan almost entirely as they traveled. No doubt the two being on edge had caused him to be a bit antsy, particularly Solas. No one likes when a mage is upset, things tend to spontaneously combust around them. That, or he really just disliked hearing “shem” muttered every time one of the Dalish stole a glance at him. Fenris scoffed. _Welcome to the party_.

            After what felt like far too long, Lothriel finally emerged from the camp and called to her team to fall in behind her. Blackwall couldn’t join her fast enough, while Fenris and Solas stiffly took up their places in formation with her.

            “Solas,” the Inquisitor started, glancing back at the mage. “Do you have a sense of your friend? You said they were close by?”

            “Yes,” Solas answered, the anxiety clear in his voice. “I cannot be more precise than that, however.”

            As they made their way through the shallow embankment, the generic Inquisition soldier armor Lavellan had given Fenris temporarily sat heavy on his shoulders in a way that he still hadn’t quite gotten used to yet. He flexed his hands as they looked about, listening for any evidence of shouting or magic, and inspecting the environment for anything out of place. After a few minutes walking south east, Blackwall stopped and got Lavellan’s attention.

            “Inquisitor,” he spoke, his voice breaking the air around them as he stooped to the ground, the scale mail of his armor clinking as he did. “There are claw marks here in the road.”

            Solas beat Lavellan to his side, the Warden moving a bit away so he could get a better look. “I don’t think there are creatures native to this area that would leave something like this, do you?” the human asked, glancing back at their red-headed leader.

            “There _are_ demons around,” Lavellan suggested. “Though they are mostly rage demons, right? These don’t have scorch marks or anything. I also don’t feel a rift nearby.”

            Solas shook his head and backed away from the marks on the ground. “Let us move on.”

            “They are on the road here…” Blackwall muttered, glancing down both ways before stopping and squinting behind a high boulder. “Are those bodies?”

            Fenris looked over his shoulder at the place the man was peering, spinning on his heel to duck behind the rock and take a look himself. There were bodies, well, what remained of bodies, littering the sides of the roadway, two crumpled against a large, pointy boulder, and pieces settling in the grass around it.

            Solas released a shuddering breath through his nose as he stepped by Fenris, looking hard at a body that looked to have been thrown against the boulder, a splatter and trail of blood sliding down the flat plain to show its travel. “No…no…” he muttered to himself, his voice shaking with horror.

            “Do you feel anything? Any magic around?” Blackwall asked. He was trying to be helpful, but unfortunately the question was not.

            “Yes, I can,” Solas grumbled as he shook his head again, “But I cannot pinpoint—,” He cut himself off and sighed heavily. “I fear they may have killed it. We must hurry.”

            “What about you, Fenris?” Lavellan asked. “Your markings can sense magic, yes?”

            “Not nearly as well as he can,” Fenris answered, gesturing to Solas. “Whatever magic that is being used at the forts here is hampering my senses anyway.”

            At that they continued down the road, following the bodies until they rounded a line of upturned rock. Solas froze when they saw it: a shuddering Pride demon sat on its knees, contained by a forcefield that looked to be anchored to short, white pillars that surrounded it in a circle.

            The rest of the party skidded to a halt when he had, Fenris looking over at the demon with disdain. At a loud growl from Solas, an angry frustrated sound he had never heard from the mage before, he turned to see the mage floundering his arms in frustration as he lost his composure for a moment. Fenris’s eyebrows furrowed low as he looked back to the demon again. Its posture was weak, small flickers of electricity jumping over its rigid skin, most of them too short to make it from one surface to another. Its claws were dark with blood, perched to the ground in order to keep its body from falling under the weight of the mages that surrounded it, encaging it with magic.

            “They…turned your friend into a demon,” Lavellan announced in a sorrowful tone.

            Fenris’s eyebrows shot up, his head snapping to attention to look at the Inquisitor as she approached a seething somniari. They were here to _rescue_ that thing?!

            The mage’s blue eyes looked at Lavellan as he straightened and calmed himself, finally able to slip into some semblance of rational calm despite the angry divot between his arched eyebrows. After a moment he started to fidget with his sleeves. “Yes.”

            “You are telling me that we are here to free a _demon_?” Fenris asked, irritated. “Are you out of your _skull_ , somniari?!” The agitation that he had been feeling finally broke, crashing out of him as he thrust it towards Solas.

            The mage bore that brunt about as well as he had expected. His nose wrinkled as he scowled at the warrior, crossing his arms over his chest tight. “A _spirit_ becomes corrupted and turned into a demon when it is summoned and _forced_ to go against its purpose.” He practically hissed at Fenris, swiftly running out of patience. He shook his head fiercely and drug his nails over his scalp. “What did they do? What did they do? _What did they do?!_ ”

            Attempting to steer his focus back on track, Lavellan interjected and took Solas’s attention back to her by attempting to discuss the issue at hand. “How did it become corrupted? What could be so opposed to wisdom that it would turn into a demon like this? Fighting?” She gestured back down the road towards the bodies that they had found, the mark on her hand pulsing gently.

            Fenris crossed his arms over his chest as a dark-haired mage in Circle robes cautiously began approaching them, taking slow tentative steps towards the group. The robes looked to be from the Free Marches. They had likely traveled with the roaming rebellion down to Ferelden. The warrior tightened his grip on his biceps at the man came within speaking distance. The elf noticed the other mages now around the demon, casting and using the pillars as a focus to keep it more contained. Well, locating the culprits was easy enough.

            “Why don’t we ask them?” Fenris suggested, shifting his gaze from the stranger to his fellows briefly. All eyes turned to the dark-haired mage.

            The man ignored him and looked to Solas and his staff and nearly smiled. “A mage,” he started, sounding incredibly relieved as he glanced over the rest of them. “And you are not with the bandits! Wonderful!” He slipped easily into asking for help, apparently not at all able to read the atmosphere. “We could use your help with the summoning circle. Do you have any lyrium potions? We’ve exhausted our mana fighting that demon—.”

            Solas snapped, grimacing as his arms shot downwards in a flash, clenching his fists until they were white-knuckled at his sides, his grip taught and angry. “A demon that _you_ summoned, except it was no demon until you corrupted it! You commanded a spirit of wisdom to kill; it had no choice but to take the shape you force upon it!”

            The mage was struck dumb, shocked as the anger he could not read among them slapped him hard in the face. He began stammering, backpedaling in a cowardly attempt to shrug off the blame. “I-I-I understand how someone n-not well versed in Circle magic or demons would be confused, but after you help us—.”

            “We will _not_ be helping _you_ ,” Solas growled, his attempt at a calm visage a vague memory as he exuded impatient hostility.

            Fenris flared his nostrils and looked back at the mage while Lavellan gently suggested that he not attempt to educate Solas on the matter of spirits. If all demons were once spirits…did that mean…that all the demons that had been pulled through the rifts were spirits as well? They had killed a countless amount of demons by now, and they were all simply…what, simply innocent creatures turned into monsters? He stole a glance at the demon again, a new irritant to add to his list. First he couldn’t understand his past; now his knowledge on a foundational magical principle was beginning to crumble as well. Great. Hawke shows up and completely pulls his assurance in his understanding of himself out from under him, and now there’s a possibility that demons are nothing more than spirits forced into hostility against their will.

            He shook his head as the mage raised his hands as a barrier between himself and the group, attempting to make up some bullshit about being an authority in the Circle, an organization that now carried absolutely no weight. “Shut. Up.” Fenris demanded, his tone very similar to Solas’s now as his irritation mounted on levels he didn’t expect it to today. “Do not hide behind a Circle station as if it carries any influence. Your incompetence is obvious.”

            Caring less about offending a non-magic user, the mage furrowed his eyebrows as he gave Fenris a quick once over. “How dare you--!”

            “Enough!” Solas exclaimed, slashing his hands through the air before turning his piercing gaze onto the offending mage in full force. “You summoned it to protect you from the bandits.”

            Withering under his gaze and knowing full well that he couldn’t talk himself out of it, the mage gave into the scrutiny. “Y… Yes.”

            “Once you summoned it, you bound it to your obedience. Then commanded it to kill,” Solas continued, spelling out every step of the process to hammer in exactly how much he understood about what had happened, crushing the man’s ego under his wake. He gestured violently to the ground, “ _That_ is when it turned.”

            The supposed Kirkwall mage avoided eye contact as Solas reeled himself back and took a large breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, and turning to Lavellan, who met his look easily.

            “The summoning circle. If we break it, we break the binding,” he explained quickly, his short and choppy sentences in stark contrast to his normally verbose speech. “No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

            “What?!” the stranger exclaimed, “Are you crazy! The summoning circle is the only thing keeping that thing from killing us! Whatever it was before, it’s a monster now. You can’t fix it!”

            Solas shook his head and ignored the mage completely, imploring to Lavellan. “Inquisitor, _please_!” As Lothriel looked from him to the demon, the mages around it began to falter in their magic. They had to choose now.

            “Remember Cole, Inquisitor,” Solas added, clenching his hands into fists as he forced them to his sides to keep them from shaking.

            Lavellan nodded and glanced at the green gash in her hand before looking at him. “I’ve been looking up more ways that I can use this other than sealing rifts. I believe I can disrupt the binding.” She glanced at Blackwall and Fenris as she continued, “We need to break the pillars. I’ll disrupt it before joining you.”

            “Won’t the demon attack us immediately?” Blackwall asked, glancing quickly at the demon before looking at the Inquisitor again.

            After a brief pause Solas spoke up, “I will distract it. It is my friend; I will keep it from harming you.” He looked to Lavellan earnestly, his tone soft despite his expression. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

            A roar erupted from behind them as the last of the mages holding the demon in place ceased casting. The amethyst beast stood on its hind legs now, clenching its claws as it bellowed its fierce cry. The mage in front of them ducked out of the way and, on Lavellan’s signal, they rushed into battle.

            Fenris’s brands flared as he dashed ahead in a line of blue, taking his blade in hand and swinging it into the nearest white pillar when landed squarely on his feet, keeping his momentum going as the blade crashed into the rock. The pillar was harder than he had anticipated and the blade vibrated all the way up to his shoulder. He released the weapon from his right hand and shook it out, Blackwall charging in from behind to smash his shield into the rock as well.

            Fenris felt the magic dampen around them as Lavellan used her mark to cull much of the active barrier in the area, the shimmering white pillars now dull and exposed as ordinary stone. Gripping his weapon again and knowing better now how to hit it, Fenris split up from Blackwall and charged at the pillar in the opposite direction, darting behind Solas as he readied a spell, and crashed his blade against the crag. The edge of this sword would be useless after this.

            His brands crackled as he felt the air dry out and charge near him but he kept attacking. The air dampened almost immediately after he broke the pillar in front of him with one last swing and he heard ice solidify somewhere behind him. Throwing a quick glance to see the demon snarling and turned away from him, its left hand encased in ice as it twisted its body to begin advancing on Solas, the warrior dashed again and crashed his weapon into the next pillar in front of him. He heard his name and paused as smoke came from his right and daggers lashed out at the pillar as well. Lavellan.

            As the stone in front of them fell and Lavellan dashed towards the final one, Blackwall coming in from the other side to meet her, Fenris moved with them and glanced back at the demon. It gripped a sparkling chain of lighting in its hand and pulled it around at Solas, who just barely got a barrier up on his left to block the attack, sending him careening off balance. Taking a moment to look back at Lavellan and Blackwall breaking the last pillar apart, Fenris abandoned his ruined blade and strafed to his right. The beast grinned, a dark chuckle vibrating from its chest as it made a move to swing the chain around again before Solas was to his feet. Fenris dashed then, fading through the legs of the demon and out the other side in an attempt to draw its attention.

            It worked. The demon faltered and growled, turning its four sets of eyes on Fenris as he appeared on its other side, swirls of white-blue coming from his brands in short twists like smoke. The warrior turned and glared at the demon, his brands flickering bright in a show to keep its attention from Solas while the elf got to his feet.

            As the demon made a move to ready the chain again, the fifth and final pillar crumbled and fell. The pulsing, fragile mist of magic crashed away as the demon gasped, the chain disappearing from its smeared talons. Its form fell apart as it landed on its knees, a swirl of electricity and corrupt magic twisting in a brief, violent spiral around it before evaporating. In its wake, a dark woman clad in a simple grey dress sat on her knees, looking at her hands in her lap. Her skin and hair were inky black as bright green orbs flickered brightly where her eyes should be, her frame shuddering as she regained her true form.

            Solas was on his feet and rushed to it in a flash. He slowed when he got near, the spirit looking up as he crouched before her, a sullen look on his face. Fenris frowned, assuming the mage would have been happy. Then again, he’d never seen a spirit that color before.

            “ _Lethallin, Ir abelas_ ,” Solas murmured, all fury whipped away along with the barrier trapping his friend. His anger and agitation had been replaced with sadness and defeat as he looked over the spirit in front of him.

            “ _Tel’abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him!”_ the spirit replied with an earnest tone, shaking its head. Its face held the look of relief while recalling an unpleasantness that had passed. It raised its head now, looking at Solas. Its face was calm and sincere, but sorry. _“‘Ma melava halani_. _Mana suledin nadas. ‘Ma ghilana mir din'an.”_

            Solas looked away from the spirits eyes as he closed his, eyebrows furrowed in a hard line as he shook his head minutely, flinching from what the spirit had told him. Fenris glanced at Lothriel for a brief moment. She held a sorrowful frown as well. Whatever they were saying, at least she understood it.

_“’Ma nuvenin,”_ Solas replied after a moment, turning his head back to his friend as he squared his shoulders. He raised his hands between them and twisted his wrists slowly, meeting her eyes. The spirit gave him a gentle smile as it began to dissipate, disintegrating into inky stripes that flew into the air, striking the air in a wild calligraphy before disappearing.

            Fenris blinked as Solas let out a shuddering breath, casting his eyes back to the ground as he brought his hands back to him. This reaction was not what he had anticipated. Were they not simply returning it to the Fade?

            “ _Dareth shiral…”_ Solas murmured, barely getting it out before taking another steadying breath.

            That phrase was familiar, and Fenris recognized it. That was a farewell. The warrior squared his jaw as he looked down on the proud mage crouched on his feet, baring the fresh weight of his friend’s fate. It must have told him to kill it, to end its suffering.

            After a moment Lothriel approached him from the edge of the bank, her knives sheathed in a cross over her back. “It was right, Solas. You did help it; you gave it some peace.”

            The somniari closed his eyes, his head raising just a fraction. “And now…I must endure.”

            “Let me know if I can help,” Lothriel replied softly, her red hair catching the sun in a vibrant fire before a collection of clouds passed over it, hiding it from view.

            Fenris clenched his fist as he felt the need to say something, add on to her offer, but he came up with nothing to say. His mind was too occupied processing everything. Death was inevitable. No words could ever soothe the pain of that kind of loss, only time could. So why did he feel the need to…comfort him?

            Blackwall and Fenris walked in towards the two as Solas took to his feet, stepping towards Lavellan with a gentle smile even as the sadness still held in the lines of his eyes. “You already have.”

            At the sound of footsteps, Fenris glanced passed Solas to see the mages from before approaching them, their postures a lot easier now that the spirit had been dealt with. A deep frown scored Fenris’s features as he stopped near the other elf, giving the group a hard look.

            Solas looked to him and they met eyes for a moment. Fenris’s eyebrow twitched as he gently nodded towards their direction. The somniari’s expression shifted and he turned towards them now. Fenris could hear his voice, hardened despite a sorrowful undercurrent. “All that remains is them.”

            “Thank you,” the dark-haired mage spoke up, two others standing behind him in a collection of different Circle robes. “We wouldn’t have risked the summoning, but the roads were far too dangerous to remain unprotected.”

            Fenris gritted his teeth. They had the audacity to justify what they had done in the wake of this fight? In the wake of Solas’s…loss? After their incompetence nearly killed themselves and set a raging demon to scour the countryside?

            “You,” Solas began, stalking towards them in a slow, deliberate stride, the other mages cowering immediately as they started to back away as his voice trembled, “ _tortured and killed my friend._ ”

            “We-we didn’t know it was a spirit! The book said it could help us! P-please, believe me!” the dark-haired mage pleaded as the backed away.

            Fenris took a breath as his brands flickered, the image of a dark haired woman lying supine under him with an arrogant expression came to him.

_Fenris looked into her cold eyes for a moment before agreeing. Her information came out in a rush. Sister. Servant. Not a slave. It didn’t matter._

_“I believe you,” he said before thrusting his hand into her chest and crushing her heart, the anger and hate flaring in his gut as he finally killed her, finally took revenge for all the pain and agony she caused him. She’s dead, she can’t hurt him again, hurt anyone again. Good riddance. He moved passed a high shoulder and a voice came from above it:_

_“So much for not killing her.”_

            Fenris groaned and shook his head. Hadriana. He knew she’d died, Danarius had said as much, but he hadn’t divulged the circumstances of her demise. Knowing she’d died by his hand was…comforting.

            “Solas…” Lavellan’s voice spoke up, catching everyone’s attention. Solas stopped in his tracks as he glanced her way.

            Fenris pulled himself back into the moment, looking between Lothriel’s pitying expression and the bold line of Solas’s shoulders. She meant to stop him? What right did she have? Moral platitudes were meaningless here.

            “Somniari,” Fenris spoke up, the bald elf turning his head to hear him but keeping his gaze on the cowering mages. “Either you kill them for corrupting your friend, or I kill them so their incompetence hurts no one else.”

            “Fenris!” Lothriel exclaimed, disapproving.

            Ignoring her, Fenris approached Solas from his side and halted as Solas shook his head and glared into their faces. “That will not be necessary.”

            Just as the mages reached for their staves stowed on their backs, Solas gestured and their bodies went up in a flash of white hot fire. Without even a cry or scream, they slumped to the charred ground as they burned, dead in an instant. Their mana had been gone from the beginning, they had no chance.

            Lothriel shook her head out of the corner of Fenris’s eye. Solas looked down at the flames dance over the freshly dead bodies for a few moments before speaking.

            “I need some time alone,” he announced, “I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

            Fenris pressed his lips together as Solas turned to walk back in the direction of camp, brushing gently passed him. The mage’s knuckles grazed the flat of his hand and a wave of heat went through the warrior, quick but evident.

            Fenris clenched his hand into a fist and turned to watch Solas’s receding back, Lothriel and Blackwall approaching him from the river bank. The gesture may or may not have been deliberate, but his reaction... What was _wrong_ with him?

            “Your weapon?” Blackwall asked, Fenris turning back to look at the bearded man for a moment. After walking over the grounds towards his fallen weapon, avoiding the spot that the spirit had sat mere moments ago, he retrieved it. The damaged state of the blade drew a grimace from him. Good thing it had been double-edged, as one side of it was useless now.

            Once he holstered his sword and returned to the pair, Lavellan pulled her gaze from the bodies and sighed. “We’re one man down.”

            “We can take care of a few menial tasks while we’re still here,” Blackwall suggested, his shield strapped firmly to his back.

            After a moment of consideration, Lavellan nodded and turned towards them. A smirk crept over her face now. “Who’s up for chasing a golden halla?”

 

***

 

            After an afternoon of (literally) chasing down Dalish favors to acquire a new agent, the trio finally rested at the forward camp. Lavellan aimed to get up early in the morning to head back, not feeling comfortable dealing with the massive amounts of undead at the abandoned Orlesian forts when they had no magic user. Despite her anchor, she didn’t know how to deal with the spell that was raising the skeletons nor the barriers guarded by arcane horrors, so they would need to return to Skyhold.

            Fenris gulped down a mouthful of pinot Lavellan had given him on the trip there and stared into the fire. Scouts moved around them, the hum of rubbing fabric and shifting dirt under feet encompassing the din settling over the camp, a few conversations sprinkled here and there. Being around people so consistently finally felt something close to comfortable, a transition that had not been very easy for the elf. He tended to prefer or even seek solitude, but the company of people for more than a few nights was something that he had missed, even if he preferred being alone.

            He remembered being alone a lot in Kirkwall. Waiting. Attempts to busy himself on his own were no comparison to spending his days with the company of those he valued. That seemed to be the case here as well, though there were few he valued besides Varric, at least not close to that degree.

            He looked at his hand and frowned, remembering the rush of blood and adrenaline when Solas had moved passed him to take his leave. It was not a spell, and they hadn’t made skin contact so it wasn’t a reaction of his brands to his aura. What was it then? It didn’t feel like fear, he was confident that was an emotion he could recognize. Little else made any sense in the context of the situation. He shook his head and decided to ignore it, concentrating on his drink to allow himself at least a night of relaxed inebriation.

            After another mouthful of wine, he noticed Lothriel approach him. She perched herself next to him and smiled.

            “Enjoying the wine?” she asked pleasantly.

            “Yes, thank you,” he answered carefully. “You are…not upset?”

            She crooked the left side of her mouth and tilted her head with a confused curve to her eyes. “No, why would I be?”

            He gestured with his free hand in the general direction of the rest of the Plains. “The mages that we confronted earlier that you wanted to spare. I…assumed you would be upset with my suggestion.”

            She frowned briefly before snatching the bottle from his hand. He bit back his protest as she took a few swigs before turning to him and shrugging. The fire light glinted in a bright yellow-green through the dark glass of the bottle.

            “In the end he chose what he wanted,” she reasoned, handing the bottle back to him. She continued as he grasped the neck and retrieved it, “I just don’t like watching people seek revenge. It doesn’t do anything for them in the end.”

            The warrior cocked an eyebrow, “Perhaps not when it consumes their lives. But in the moment? It can be rather satisfying, if disappointing later on.”

            Lavellan hummed as she looked into the stars in the sky. “You’d probably know better about revenge than I do, anyway.”

            Although he very much agreed, Fenris would never actually say that. Instead, he answered, “I wouldn’t know.”

            She hummed before perking up, hands grasping at something attached to her belt. “Oh, I have a letter you might like to see, here,” she told him, taking out a small cylinder that was normally strapped to their carrier birds. Fenris put the bottle on the ground between his feet as she offered it to him.

            “What about?” he asked, tapping the open end of the cylinder against his palm. A rolled up parchment came out as he quickly retrieved it from the container.

            “You’ll see,” she teased. He gave her back the cylinder and, with a wink, she stood and made her way over to a scout that was gently asking for her.

            Fenris cocked an eyebrow as he swiftly unrolled the correspondence:

 

                                    Inquisitor,

                                    The magister’s estate has been scavenged. The current owner had

                                    been abroad, and the servants were more than happy to turn a blind

                                    eye to our scouts as they searched for anything concerning the late

                                    senator’s research. We found papers detailing both your companion’s

                                    unusual powers as well as literature mentioning memories and mental

                                    servitude. We were also able to find notes from both parties at the

                                    home. They have been handed to Master Pavus for translation, as per

                                    your instruction. I hope this letter finds you well.

 

                                    L.

 

            Fenris let out a heavy sigh and smirked. Good, good. This was great news. Now he may start gaining some control over his memories, and potentially when they return to him rather than suffering them at some of the worst possible instances. His eyes snagged on the name ‘Pavus’ but he shrugged it off. Lavellan hadn’t told him about his cooperation, but he was the only resource that would be able to translate research from Tevinter into Common anyway. Hopefully the altus wouldn’t be one to consider him indebted, but Fenris wasn’t about to hold his breath.

            It took them a little over a week to get back to Skyhold. Upon their arrival, Fenris was surprised to find that Solas hadn’t returned. He walked into the rotunda to see his paints and related supplies tucked under the scaffolding and his other things untouched. Lavellan frowned as she joined him in the empty walkway, frowning as her bright eyes darted around the room. Announcing that she would ask Lelianna, she made her way towards the stairs, taking two at a time to get to the aviary on the third floor.

            Fenris felt little inclination to join her, but he didn’t like the idea that he still hadn’t returned. He had left at least half a day’s ride before them, he should have arrived first. Clicking his teeth together, the elf ascended the stairs to the library and spotted Dorian sitting in his alcove reading a book. He padded to the Tevinter and, once he’d entered the embrace of the lowering sun in the window, Dorian turned, his light green eyes looking up and wide. He smiled pleasantly when he recognized him.

            “Fenris! I thought I heard Lothriel’s impatient stride up the stairs,” he greeted.

            “You know her gait that well?” Fenris asked with a flat tone.

            At a shrug, the Tevinter turned back to the book and shook his hand towards the third floor above them, the rings on his fingers glinting in the sun as they moved under its light. “She’s the only one that practically leaps up the steps, almost like she’s climbing a mountain. Very impatient, that woman.”

            “Indeed.”

            At his tone, Dorian shot Fenris a too-innocent look before it morphed into a smirk, “She’s not the only impatient elf, I take it.”

            “No.”

            Realizing that the warrior wasn't in the mood for idle chit-chat, Dorian shook his head and stood. He reached for a bound book he’d stowed away in the shelf behind his table and offered it to Fenris. “Your sister, she didn’t put it in a cypher, so her notes are ready. It didn’t take long to translate them.”

            Eagerly, Fenris took the burgundy book and opened it, reading over his sister’s hand before flipping to an area further in with unbound pages, written in Dorian’s curled, elegant script. The tails and the curves of the letters were harsh and extravagant, just like their creator. He turned back to the altus and closed the book, the word of thanks sticking to the roof of his mouth. Then again, that could be bile.

            Dorian continued, unperturbed. “Our late magister, however, _did_ code his notes, so those will take a little bit more time,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I will let you know when they’re completed.”

            Fenris finally loosened his tongue, “What do I owe you?”

            The mage’s eyebrows shot up in surprise before he chuckled and shook his head shortly. “No no, these were on the orders of the Inquisitor. No need.”

            At the elf’s suspicious look, Dorian sighed, his puffed out chest slumping. “Honestly, Fenris, you owe me nothing, but I appreciate the sentiment. Just...don’t ask me to use any of that magic on you.” He look positively unnerved at the idea, giving the book in Fenris's hand a weary look.

            “That you can be sure of,” Fenris retorted, tucking the book under his arm. “Regardless, I…appreciate it.”

            He didn’t wait for a quip from the Tevinter before he turned and made his way back towards the stairs, intending to look over the notes in the wine cellar. Even if he couldn’t make heads or tails of most of the magic or incantations, just having it in his hands, able to read it, was something in and of itself. It was a comfort that it existed and that he could potentially make use of it soon. Make real progress with all of this nonsense.

            As he pushed through the door and crossed the threshold into the empty walkway again, he stopped. The wind rushed out his nose as he looked over the papers collected on the somniari’s desk, the cold candle sitting idle on its corner. He wasn’t going to ask Dorian to help remove the spell, and he wasn’t going to ask Vivienne to remove it either. He was going to ask Solas. When he returned. He pressed his lips together as his grip on the binding of the journal tightened. _If_ he came back…

            In a compulsion that he could only justify as stubborn, he turned towards the white chaise against an unpainted wall of the rotunda and laid himself down across it. He threw his hair over the arm and lounged down into it, cracking the book open. He reasoned that it was as good a place to read as ever and, once he pulled Dorian’s notes from the back of the journal to read alongside the original notes, he became absorbed rather quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lethallin, Ir abelas_ \- My friend, I'm sorry.  
>  _Tel’abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him!_ \- I'm not sorry. I'm relieved. I'm me again!  
>  _Ma melava halani. Mana suledin nadas. ‘Ma ghilana mir din'an._ \- You've helped me. Now you must endure. Guide me unto death.  
>  _Ma nuvenin._ \- As you wish.  
>  _Dareth shiral._ \- Farewell.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks to my editor, as always for a timely proof read. Comments and criticisms are appreciated! Thanks to everyone who has given me feedback so far!


	13. Chapter 13

            Somehow Fenris didn't end up making it back up to the library for the subsequent days following his return to Skyhold. After training in the early morning and eating, he would walk to the rotunda and lounge on a piece of furniture there, having decided to stow the research away in a short shelf pressed against the wall. He just didn’t find the desire to climb the stairs, and told himself it was just easier to stay on the first floor. He wasn’t in the rotunda because he was waiting for Solas, it was just easier down here, that’s all.

            By the third day, he was sitting at the desk in the center, feet propped up on the table while pouring over the notes, despite not really retaining anything he was reading, more due to incomprehension than distraction. Or the mild anxiety simmering in between his shoulder blades. He released a short, frustrated breath. He was being a fool. He hadn’t promised he’d helped, but he’d offered it nonetheless, right? He’d come back, the Inquisition needed him. This wouldn’t shake him so much that he wouldn’t return, surely.

            Then where was he?

            Despite taking breaks to train, having the research here ready to be perused only made him more antsy to start putting it to good use. His anxiety regarding Hawke had lessened since seeing him back then, Varric’s presence actually serving to calm him now rather than agitate, but his memories, his past… They were a few steps closer now, maybe even just a few steps away. Although he couldn’t really understand or apply anything that he was reading in the journal, he felt confident that Solas would know what to do, or at least be able to decipher a way to utilize the knowledge here, provided the altus hadn’t flubbed the translation. Would the blockage lift all at once, or would it have to be chipped away at? Would he suddenly get everything back, or would it just come slightly faster?

            He nearly jumped when the door creaked open. His eyes darted from the fluid script to spy a feminine form in the door. He relaxed when the flicker of small broaches and red hair identified her as she moved into the filtered sunlight in the main room.

            “Hmm, good morning Fenris,” Lavellan greeted with a stifled yawn as she stretched her arms over her head and pushed her hips forward at the same time. “You’ve been here pretty consistently, huh? I heard you haven’t even been to the library for a little while.”

            His green eyes flicked up to the banister surrounding the second floor, as if he’d be able to see the altus like he’d been summoned. “Is that so?” he mumbled, reluctant to broach the subject. He leveled his gaze at her as she made her way to walk around the table to the door leading out to the ramparts, her white neckerchief tucked firmly under her tan vest.

           She’d been through here at about the same time for the last few days as well, he noted. Only passing through, of course, but it was a strange pattern. He didn’t recall her passing through before, though his observation of the rotunda was limited from the second floor.

            “You’ve been walking through here pretty consistently yourself,” he fired back, his head cocking to the side. His gaze flicked to the door she was headed towards before passing back to her. “Something tells me you aren’t coming here to check on the mage.”

            Lothriel rolled her eyes slowly and shrugged, giving him a lidded, knowing look. What was that damned secretive smirk on her face? “Nope, though I suspect we have similar motivations.”

            He just blinked at her, completely at a loss for what she was getting at. She only snickered and advanced towards the door, offering a short farewell before pushing through, a cold draft filtering in before she shut it off behind her.

            He shook his head as the bolt slid shut. Glancing at the sunlight on the walls, he noticed she was a little later coming through than the last two days, but thought nothing of it before switching his focus back to the pages at hand.

            The little he could really get from the book was that the spell used on him was keeping his memories inside of him, a distinction he could probably only make thanks to the somniari pointing out the difference in the first place. Although there were notes referring to lyrium, so he could assume they were about his markings, it didn’t particularly sound like they were related at all. Likely, Danarius had used something separate in order to keep him docile so that he could better control him. He huffed at the idea, but something about it at least made him feel a little better about his desires and behavior when he had been with Danarius. If his attitude was a result of a spell, perhaps his motivations and…wants at the time were simply a result of that magic. It felt a little like lying to himself, though, and he didn’t like the idea of hiding behind the magic as an excuse, no matter how attractive it was. Whoever he had been as a slave, he wasn’t that person now and he’d never be that person again. The same goes for the naïve child in Seheron, Leto. Removing as much of the lingering magister’s magic would only make that more of a reality.

            He heard muted chatter behind the door to the main hall, Varric’s voice closer to the door than whoever he was conversing with. The door inched open with a slight creak and his eyes followed it, looking at the door being held ajar, the conversation filtering in more clearly now.

            “…don’t be too long,” the dwarf advised to the unseen figure.

            Fenris furrowed an eyebrow as the door opened wider and the last person he anticipated coming through that door made his way in, light spilling in around him to mute his features before he shut the door again, casting himself in shadow.

            The elf tightened his hold on the book and fought with whether he should pretend he didn’t see him or not before the man’s yellow eyes fell on him and his serious face eased a little.

            “Fenris, I heard I might find you here.”

            It took him a second to gather his wits about him, Hawke’s presence being able to scatter them with sufficient ease. The anxiety in his back tightened, but it was different than it had been.

            “Hawke,” he said simply, making sure to keep his voice low. Wasn’t it fairly dangerous for him to be here? Or were they not trying to hide his presence here anymore?

            “The Inquisitor has agreed to meet my Warden friend, Stroud,” he started but stopped himself, darting his eyes to the side in a sheepish look. “Ah, you probably don’t remember him.”

            The elf didn’t answer, muscles coiled like a spring.

            “He…helped Carver. Do you remember him, Carver? He’s my brother.” Hawke asked, looking awkward and guarded.

           Fenris took a moment to try and recall the name, or any semblance of the person in his mind. After a moment, he responded, “I do not, my apologies.”

            The human shook his head quickly, forgiving it. “No, no, it’s fine. I…” he stopped, chuckled, and looked away again. That stupid tightness came back to Fenris’s chest and he willed himself to ease up on the book, lest he break it. He didn’t need this right now. He hadn’t been able to decipher any of these physical reactions, and without Solas here, he wasn’t going to get any closer to figuring it out. He couldn’t just _ask_ Hawke; how would he even phrase it? ‘I feel incredibly anxious around you all the time, and I don’t really know what that’s about. Did I love you once? Did I hate you?’ Yes, that would be a _great_ ice breaker.

            Hawke met his gaze again after looking about the rotunda, “I guess I was…wondering if she spoke to you about the trip.”

            Fenris shook his head and Hawke sighed, muttering under his breath, “What am I even doing?” Clearing his throat, he met his eyes again. “I…came to see if you were going, and to see how…you were.”

            The elf blinked, not entirely sure how to process how strange Hawke was acting, if this was actually strange. It seemed like it, the mage he met in secret with Varric had been far more reserved and confident than this. Perhaps he didn’t know how to address him, since all of Fenris’s memories of him were hidden away. It probably made him uncomfortable; maybe they were more personable in the past. So, should he be more honest with Hawke? The idea made him incredibly nervous. He didn’t know him, not anymore, but he did at one point, very well he suspected. But in what capacity?

            “If the Inquisitor wants me to accompany her, I will go,” he answered simply, shuffling in his seat, dropping his feet to the ground to sit up straight. “Otherwise, I am…well.” He tried to will himself to say something else, tell him information he hadn’t asked for. Making conversation was personable, wasn’t it? “I have been trying to get my memories back.”

            Hawke stiffened for a moment before straightening his stance and squaring his shoulders. “I see. I suppose without Danarius, you can concentrate more on something like that. You didn’t care much for it back in Kirkwall.” The look he wore now made Fenris regret telling him, but he wasn’t sure why. He was stoic now, unlike a moment ago. Odd.

            After a beat, Hawke said, “I’m glad you’re well, Fenris. I…” he relaxed his posture a little bit, the lines on his face a bit clearer as an expression flickered over his face, too fast to decode, “I wish you luck.”

            Fenris offered a stilted nod and Hawke mirrored it before turning and swiftly exiting back to the main hall.

            The elf let out a breath, sagging in his seat as the tension flew out of him in a rush, the book falling limp in his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them, finding the entire experience stressful. Though, he noted, seeing him again wasn’t nearly as bad as when he first saw him with Varric. That had been…exhausting, mentally and emotionally. He’d retreated to his quarters almost immediately to try and recuperate afterwards. This time though, he felt significantly more composed, both in his presence and right now, but it was still far from easy.

            He sat like that for a while, mulling the exchange over again, barely noticing the door opening again as he placed the book blindly on the desk, shielding his eyes with his fingers as he leaned into the slow circles he rubbed into his temples. He pleaded with whatever higher power existed that it wasn’t Hawke. Anyone else, _please_.

            The footsteps, lighter than Hawke’s heavy shoes, stilled for a moment. A breath, a sigh.

            “ _On dhea’him_.”

            Fenris flipped his head around, looking with wide eyes at the person he’d been waiting on for days. The somniari looked better than he had before at the Plains, no longer wearing the armor that he’d left in, but he still looked tired. He had a little smile on his lips, pleasantly surprised.

            Fenris forgot to answer, bewildered, his heart hammering away in his chest.

            Solas looked about the room briefly before looking at Fenris again. “It would appear another has claimed my territory in my absence,” he teased.

            Fenris shot out of the chair, hesitating a moment before grabbing the book on the table and holding it to him. He tried to regain his composure and cleared his throat, “Are we wolves now? Fighting over space?” He chastised himself for being derisive.

            Solas bit his lip to try and keep from smirking to no avail. Fenris swallowed, and forced his eyes away from the mage’s mouth to the book clutched in his hand. That spark he felt could be identified very easily, but he ignored it in favor of getting to the point. Right now was not the time for that.

            “Wolves can share a space. They rarely fight, unless it is necessary,” Solas retorted. Fenris turned his gaze back to him to find his face mostly neutral, matter of fact, the playful expression hidden away.

            His gripped tightened on the binding. Right, the book. Research. Memories.

            “The altus has finished some of his research,” he started, gesturing with the book. “I had been reading it, but I can’t—.” He stopped, realizing the incredible callousness with which he was doing this. Solas had left to mourn the death of a friend. Unloading work on him, without even asking after his countenance…

            The mage smiled anyway and walked towards Fenris, extending his hand to take the book. The warrior hesitated before withdrawing it, Solas’s expression shifting into mild confusion.

            “No, you’ve returned from…” Fenris started, frustrated that his thoughts were so scattered, the memory of the sensation when Solas had touched him and the lingering irritation from Hawke throwing him off balance. “You’ve just come back from…”

            Solas smiled, catching on as he grasped the book Fenris had pulled away from him. He was about a foot from him now, and they were close, the proximity as Solas looked down at Fenris suddenly making him realize that pulling the book away hadn’t been the best idea. The wave of heat he’d felt at the Plains was threatening to rush over him again.

            Solas didn’t seem to mind, however. “I appreciate your concern, _reva’lin_ , but you need not be concerned. I returned when I was confident in my ability to perform my duties,” he reassured, tugging the book out of Fenris’s grasp and stepping away, the vague warmth from his body receding with him.

            Finally collecting himself, the warrior stood up straight as Solas cracked the book open, turning to look over its pages. Discontent with his answer, Fenris pressed, “Then you are well?”

            Without looking up, the elf turned to walk to the table, flicking his wrist to light the candle settled on the corner of it, the vibration in the Veil shuddering along Fenris’s skin. After placing the open book on the table and pulling the notes from their safe position pressed against the back cover, he looked to Fenris with a soft expression.

            “Yes, I am well. _‘Ma serannas_.”

            The warrior nodded and came to stand by the table, watching for a moment as Solas shuffled through the notes and flipped to the corresponding page that the research began on. He wanted to ask him so much, but he knew he didn’t have the time for it. No, he should leave him to read over the journal.

            “I shall leave you to your task,” Fenris announced, turning to make his exit towards the main hall to make his way to the small training yard. He needed to hit something, his nerves were far too jittery to ascend to the library and read something that he could actually comprehend. Between all this nervousness, Hawke, and Solas, doing something simple like hitting a dummy would feel nice.

          “As you wish,” Solas responded before taking his seat. “I will send for you when I have something to report.”

            Fenris opened the door and closed it, spying Varric chatting with a noble who seemed very amused by whatever he was telling them. The dwarf had that smile on that didn’t reach his eyes, though, pretending to enjoy himself and his company.

            He hesitated a moment but decided to advance towards his original destination. Talking wouldn’t make this any better right now, maybe he could talk later when he was sufficiently relieved.

            “How’s Chuckles, elf?”

            He turned to look at Varric who was shooting him a knowing smirk. Why were people looking at him like that today?

            Fenris bit back a retort about Hawke, considering his title and the rumor-rich atmosphere they were standing in. “He walked by here, didn’t he?”

            The dwarf shrugged, not losing the smirk.

            The elf turned and made his way out, descending the steps and making a bee line for the dummies passed the tavern. Happy to find them unoccupied, the Seeker who normally could be found here nowhere in sight, he went straight to the nearest one and laid into it.

            The sun had descended to teeter on the mountain peaks in the distance before he stopped, pouring with sweat and exhausted. He’d successfully settled his antsy nerves and managed not to break the dummy this time. He slumped to lean against it, settling on the grass for a minute while he caught his breath. He’d have to wait again, but it was fine this time. Solas was back and working, willing to help. It hadn’t really occurred to him that he might refuse, but all things considered, he was in a much better place now.

            Feeling rested, he got to his feet and began to walk back towards the main walkway, considering a quick bath before changing his clothes. As he crossed on to the path that lead from the tavern to the stairs, a commotion rang out inside and the door swung open. He saw the mass before realizing what it was, stepping out of the way to narrowly miss the collision with the flying ale barrel, hollering and drunken laughing ringing out from behind it.

            Unfortunately for him, it landed just on the edge of the closing and cracked, spraying foaming, watered-down ale in an arc over the pathway, him included.

            He sighed and wiped at the alcoholic beverage on his face, looking up to find the culprits. He met the eye of a sharped tooth, laughing Qunari, and he couldn’t really bring himself to be surprised in the slightest.

            “Hey, wow, Fen! Glad you ducked out in time, huh?” Bull boomed, trying to control his boisterous laughter as his lieutenant and a few soldiers spilled out from behind him to grab at the barrel and mutter a multitude of garbled apologies.

            “Should I even ask why?” Fenris muttered, carding his hand through his hair to survey how far it went. At least the wood barely splintered, the drink was still probably salvageable, if they were fast about it.

            “Well, Sera said--,” Bull started but Fenris sighed.

            “Yeah that’s all I needed to hear,” he said, pulling at his clothes as Bull helped his team heft it up.

            Bull smirked at Fenris before turning to retreat back to the Tavern. Fenris met his eyes with careful skepticism.

            “Really, Fen, sorry about that. Barrels are pretty hard to bust, and Sera wanted to see how far I could throw it,” he told him sincerely. His grin gained teeth as Fenris accepted his apology, pulling his shirt away from his skin as it started to stick. “Although, if you need any help out of those clothes…”

            The elf looked unimpressed and scoffed weakly, trying to hide his embarrassment, causing Bull to laugh again.

            “I can get out of my clothes just fine, thanks,” he rebuked, too caught off guard to think up anything in the moment. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised at all, given Bull’s…personality, but he hadn’t expected it to be trained on him at any point.

            “Good, we could just skip to the good parts then,” Bull responded.

            Fenris just shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Go back inside, Bull. Your men could use some help with that ale you busted.”

            The qunari shrugged and turned, walking back inside without another word.

            Pondering the fastest way down to the Servant’s Quarters where he knew there were some water basins, he quickly made his way up the stairs to the throne room, shirking the soaked article as he pushed through the door. He’d get stares, it’s why he tried to always wear something that hid most of his body and obscured the markings when they were dim, but he couldn’t deny the small thrill he felt when aristocratic dimwits gawked at him in both fear and wonder. There was power in conflicted intimidation.

            Hanging on to the fabric by the collar, he draped it over his arm as Varric called to him. He was set up at his little table that he’d essentially claimed for himself, a few candles lit behind him as he leaned against the edge of the wooden surface. In front of him was Solas, who was looking uncomfortable and avoiding eye contact.

            The dwarf glanced at Solas with a patronizing grin and turned back to Fenris as he approached, scrubbing his face with the garment.

            "Decided to throw a party with the training dummies, or is that just what your sweat smells like?” he teased.

            Fenris laughed sarcastically, fixing Varric with sharp look. “Wouldn’t that joke work better on you, dwarf?”

            Varric considered for a moment and nodded, “Yeah you’re probably right. Sorry, I just wanted to make a joke at your expense. What happened anyway?”

            He glanced at Solas who was still avoiding looking at him, his arm anchored perpendicular to the ground to cover his mouth as he looked over the groups of sponsors milling in the hall. His ears were red.

            Fenris narrowed his eyes and cast Varric a quizzical look, who tapped his nose with his pointer finger.

            He explained, regardless. “Something about Bull making the fatal mistake to actually play along with Sera’s nitwit ideas.” He smirked despite his irritation, “It’s not even the good kind.”

            The dwarf snickered, rolling his neck lazily over his shoulders. “It’s probably better for the Tavern if they don’t waste the good stuff.” He turned pointedly to Solas. “Didn’t you have something, Chuckles?”

            Solas shot him a look before clearing his throat and meeting Fenris’s gaze. “Indeed. If you have time tomorrow, I will be prepared to begin assisting in removing the spell trapping your memories.”

            The elf blinked, stunned. Those notes were extensive and numerous, how was he ready only after a few hours of going through them? He pulled the garment to the back of his neck, skirting it under his hair to catch some moisture there. “That is…incredibly quick. You are quite certain?”

            “By the time we meet tomorrow, yes, we can begin,” he reassured, shifting his stance to lean on his other foot.

            With a hesitant nod, Fenris agreed. “When?”

            “Whenever you are prepared.”

            “All right.”

            With a brisk nod, Fenris turned to finally descend towards the Servant’s area, feeling giddy and uncertain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _On dhea’him._ = Good afternoon.  
>  _‘Ma serannas_ = Thank you.  
>  \--  
> Thanks to Yona as always for her timely editing. :) Thanks for all the feedback so far! Keep it coming!


	14. Chapter 14

            Harsh sunlight streamed in through the open windows behind him, cutting bright lines through the dusty air and on to the broken tiling of the floor. Fenris leaned forward from the perch deep in his seat as he reached for a wine bottle that was placed in front of him, a few ripened apples situated neatly in a shallow bowl beside it. Hoisting the container by the neck, he brought it to him and ran his thumb over the sigil, the aroma of the beverage breaking through the must hanging in the air of the estate. It was so familiar, all the sensations mixing together like this. Perhaps this is what it was like to have a home. A gentle expression graced his features as he pondered that notion, the cadence of voices outside muted by the stone of the architecture around him.

            He probably had only three bottles left. He would need to make this one last. He sighed and pulled the bottle up to take a sip before a figure caught his eye. Hesitating a moment, he brought the wine back down and turned, spying a figure leaning against the empty, dirty fireplace.

            The glow of light that dispersed through the room let him see his features, though they were muted, imprecise. Green stitched leggings, beige long-sleeved shirt with a modesty flap. Bare feet, like his. An elf. Bald with a scar over his brow. So familiar…and yet…

            He gave the stranger an unpleasant look and tensed his legs, feet flat on the floor as he readied to fight or flee. Something about him felt dangerous.

            The other elf continued looking about the room with vague interest. His expression was careful, but not unpleasant. He actually seemed surprised to be there, if anything. His eyes swiveled to rest on Fenris’s. Sharp and blue. There was a familiarity in his stare.

            “Good evening.”

            Fenris hesitated before putting the bottle down. Besides the gesture he said nothing.

            The man twisted his mouth into something akin to disappointment. He waited a moment before speaking, “If I may ask, where are we?”

            Fenris drew his eyebrows down and glanced at the window. This place was…no. This was not his home, but it was familiar. Perhaps at one time it was, but it wasn’t anymore. And this wasn’t Tevinter; he was free here, so he had to be somewhere else. This domain was his. That could only mean one thing.

            “Kirkwall,” he replied, meeting the blue-eyed gaze again before rising from the chair.

            The other elf quirked an eyebrow and looked about the room with renewed interest. “I see. So this must be where you lived?” He leaned forward to look out the open door to the main hallway and grimaced, spotting an old blood stain.

            Fenris blinked and took a moment, rubbing at his forehead. It was…the same as it always had been, right? Yes, this was Kirkwall. The same dream he kept having over and over without fail, without any difference for years. But now…

            “Why are you here?” he blurted out, shooting the man a hard look.

            He looked to be affronted, “Excuse me?”

            Fenris broke away from the chair and paced towards the window, feeling like he was breaking away from a path he’d always walked, like he was going against his own instincts. Adrenaline spiked through his system as he flounced towards the back wall.

            “This dream is always the same,” he began, shielding his eyes and moving out of the way of the direct sunlight. The laugh would come any moment now. “I’m sitting here, waiting on him, drinking. Then I hear him laugh outside. He comes through the door shining like some…some holy figure. And I can’t…fight it.”

            In a frustrated move he grabbed the window panes and thrust them closed, drawing the curtain over them to block out the light. He took a breath before turning back towards the elf, scrubbing a hand down one side of his face as he glared at the doorway. “It’s like… I can always feel him approaching, when he’s gone. When I see him I just…lose control.”

            Fenris looked when he heard the other elf shift on his feet and stand squarely, moving away from the cold hearth. He took a step forward but kept his distance, caution plain in his movements. An itch formed at the back of Fenris’s mind when he noticed the man’s charm around his neck, the low-hanging jaw bone. He _knew_ that.

            “Who is it that you see?” he asked. The question sounded born more from a scientific inquiry than simple curiosity.

            The warrior opened his mouth to speak but the name just wouldn’t come. He growled and flung his arm away in an irritated gesture before bringing his hand back to press his fingers to his temples.

            After a moment, the man continued, “Is it Hawke?”

            Fenris took a deep breath, the memories coming back. Yes, Hawke. Some of the flashes were of a younger version than the one he’d met in Skyhold. Youthful, bearded, stubborn but amiable, rough around the edges but carried a love for family. But then he…changed…?

            Finally he pulled his hand away and cast a weary look towards the other elf, “Yes, Hawke.” It felt relieving to finally say it out loud in this place.

            Sincere concern flashed over the elf’s face but he declined to move, instead putting his hands behind his back and staying close to the fireplace.

            Fenris took a moment and evaluated the man’s behavior. He was being respectful despite not seeming to know where he was, but he knew him. His patience didn’t feel out of place, it felt correct. Even still, delving deeper as to _why_ just wasn’t happening. Getting his memories here was like swimming through mud, blindly reaching in an effort to break the surface and getting nowhere. Talking with him felt familiar, like he did it all the time. Where Hawke felt impulsive, wild, like a pull he couldn’t understand, this man was…different.

            He decided to revisit his earlier inquiry, “Why are you here?”

            The man tilted his head and shrugged.

            He sighed and shook his head, “You are an anomaly. Never have I been here where you were also here. You are new.”

            The man seemed to catch on to something in what he said, “You have been here many times.” It was a deduction.

            “The dream, this dream,” Fenris replied, spreading his arms to indicate the dingy, decrepit estate. “It’s always the same, every time. Sometimes there are small variances, but they never matter.” He gestured with a flat hand towards the table, “Whether I drink the wine or eat the apples, nothing changes. Whether I sit in the chair or sit on the bench, nothing changes. Everything still played out the same.” He pointed at the other elf, “But _you_ , nothing like you has ever happened before.”

            The elf regarded him for a moment before glancing at the window Fenris had closed. “You had always closed the window in your dream as well?”

            The warrior faltered and looked back at the window. No, he hadn’t. That was a first as well. Speaking of the window…

            “The laugh…it hasn’t…” he muttered, a small panic unfolding in his chest. This break in routine was… This is what he wanted. But then, why did it scare him? Would Hawke still come through the door like he always did? What if he didn’t come this time? What would happen if he didn’t?

            The laugh rang out then, through the window in a whispered, far off sound that spread through the room like a billowing cloud of smoke. Closing the window had only made it quieter, but the voice still came through unfettered. It settled on Fenris, the sound causing a relief that simultaneously made him jittery and shaky, expectant. It wasn’t broken after all, the routine. It was still going to happen, and the idea thrust him into a state of warring emotions.

            The uncertainty must have shown in his expression, the other elf moving to console him but stopped in his stride, taking a breath and forcing his hands to his sides instead. “Please, Fenris, be still. _Ane ethalas_.”

            His name, that language…with that voice it all made sense! Fenris pulled away from the window a few paces before stilling in the middle of the room, breathing as he remembered where he was _supposed_ to be. Kirkwall was long gone now, he’d likely never be back there again. Where he was now was Skyhold. That’s where he was needed. That’s where his comrades were. Varric was there, Lothriel was there, and he was…

            He snapped his gaze to meet the other man’s, organizing his scattered thoughts as he willed himself to stand still. Yes, this was right. His face was clearer now, the features there all put together in the right places. He remembered.

            “Solas,” he said with a breath, battling the confusion as to _why_ he would be here in this dream when he’d never been here before.

            A breath, genuine surprise on the other man’s face before he willfully changed his expression, closing his eyes for just a moment. His cerulean gaze was warm when he looked at Fenris again. “Yes, that is my name,” he said, his tone wavering just a bit.

            The warrior opened his mouth to say something when the front door opened, the sound of the rusted hinges screeching through the manor, invading the privacy of their conversation. The sound called for Fenris to move, to go to the foyer. Go to the door, see Hawke, call for him. His mind narrowed and he was walking before he realized it, reaching out and grabbing a hold of the doorway in an attempt to stop. The sharp fingers of the gauntlets he wore pierced into the surface of the wall as he held fast, his frame shaking as he fought the impulse.

            He could see the light pouring in, Hawke standing in front of it like a silhouette in a beacon. Beckoning. Needing. Commanding.

            “Fenris?” Hawke’s voice rang out as he looked around in the front hall, leaving the door wide open as he moved further into the open area. The closer he got, the easier it was to see his features, the red smear over his nose that became iconic for the Champion, paired with the sharp scar over his brow easily visible. Hawke looked up as he turned his head towards the balcony of the staircase, his irises lighting yellow with the pillar of light streaming in his wake.

            Fenris’s breath stalled as the man noticed him, his serious expression breaking into a soft smile. This was also a first, and his heart clenched at the flash of teeth.

            “Fenris, I’m glad I found you,” he said, cheerful.

            No amount of restraint could have held Fenris to that doorframe. He broke away from his hold and shot down the stairs in a hurry, making it to the foyer in the blink of an eye. Hawke’s eyes followed him the whole way down and he turned to face him. The man extended his hand in a friendly gesture as the branded elf made his way to him, moving to take his hand, to touch him. The force pulling him to the floor grasped him in earnest, pulling him down, but he knew he could make it this time. To be acknowledged, to see him, to say his name.

            Fenris opened his mouth to speak when his knees were close to giving out; Hawke’s eyes darted back to the opened door for just a moment. His legs collapsed to the ground as Hawke’s hand reached out and caressed his cheek, the smallest of touches before everything went black.

            He shot up in his bed and took a gulp of air when he awoke, the atmosphere of the wine cellar calming him the moment he recognized where he was. The thin layer of sweat clung to him as the dream vanished like a wisp. He groaned as it disappeared, slipping right out of his grasp. It was different this time, he realized, standing quickly and shaking out his arms to get a grip over his nerves.

            He had broken it, the routine. The images were blurry, unfocused, but he could feel it, the charge of nerves after rebellion sans the expectation of recompense. There had been fear in the air there, but it had felt normal, like a breath of fresh air, at least for a little while. All he could remember was a pair of scrupulous blue eyes, a flash of wisdom and care.

            A calming wash of air circulated through his lungs for a moment, his frame stilling as muscles untwined.

            Today was the day.

            His focus was scattered as he attempted to train later in the morning, striking the dummy at the wrong angle on his shin. Hissing, the pain a sharp spark before a dull ache as he lowered the leg back to the grassy ground beneath him.

            “You are distracted,” came the Seeker’s voice, followed quickly by a grunt as her practice sword connected with the dummy in front of her, bouncing off the straw-stuffed fabric. “Is everything all right?”

            Her concern was touching. “I am…” he hesitated, flexing lyrium-lined fingers as he stared passed the punching stand in front of him. “Nervous.”

            “I had heard that Solas was helping you with your memories,” she admitted, lowering her sword and swiping at a few lines of sweat on her forehead before casting her gaze to him. “Are you worried about working with him?”

            Fenris blinked, eyes flicking to her for a moment. “Should I be?”

            The chuckle surprised him, “No, I do not believe so. Solas has proven himself more than worthy of our trust, I believe.”

            He hummed and flexed his fingers as his gaze bored into the dummy in front of him. Yes, he had. The mage had been more than forthright, but that didn’t make him much easier to trust. His unique set of skills and expertise made him an anomaly, and anomalies were more difficult to take at face value. Though, he reasoned, he would know what it was like to be considered an aberration.

            “Perhaps you are right,” he acquiesced, stretching out his foot to test the soreness of his shin. It may bruise, but it would clear quickly. His braid swung as he turned towards the sky, assessing the sun’s position. Putting the meeting off any longer would only serve to shoot his nerves further.

            Cassandra seemed to have picked up on his decision as she adjusted the sword in her hand, ready to get back to task. “Good luck, Fenris. I hope you are able to reach what you are looking for.”

            “Thank you, Seeker.”

            “Cassandra.”

            He hesitated, meeting her nervous glance with a quizzical one.

            After clearing her throat, “We fight enough on the field. The title is no longer necessary if we are comrades. Don’t you agree?”

            Taking a glance at the color blooming on her face, the elf pondered her embarrassment. “It…takes time for me to refer to others by their names.”

            Blue eyes flicked to meet his nervously as she looked away, self-admonishing. “I apologize, I was being presumptuous.”

            “Would you prefer I call you by your name?”

            The warrior uttered a short laugh, “I wish for you to call me whatever makes you comfortable.”

            Fenris regarded her for a moment. They trained out here nearly every morning together, occasionally fought together in the field, though little of their spare time was spent together beyond close association on missions or in relation to combat. She was a comrade, but above all, she was a worthy fighter. He knew little of her background, but from what he understood, her family was aristocratic, and her leaving that kind of life due to her distaste for it, well, their ideas on that front were similar, in any case.

            Perhaps he has been keeping too much to himself. Varric was a friend; he supposed he could possibly make more.

            “Thank you. I will try, Seeker,” he answered.

            She nodded stiffly and cleared her throat, turning away from him. Her padded shoulders shifted as her lungs filled, ready to get back into it.

            Not long after a brief wash and change of clothes, Fenris padded softly to the door leading to the rotunda. Varric was gone from his table by the entrance to the hall, and the elf wasn’t sure if he preferred not having to deal with his sarcasm or if it only further set him on edge. One deep breath later, he pushed through the first door, his stride quick. This is what he’d been waiting for, there was no reason to be this nervous.

            The creak of the second door felt loud against the stillness of the rotunda. The birds up in the aviary seemed uncharacteristically quiet, as if they also anticipated this day. Fenris clenched his teeth together and closed the door behind him, finding Solas with his back to him, looking down at the desk in the center of the room.

            A moment of silence filled the space before he turned, dim light shifting over his bare scalp. Blue eyes rested on him, expectant. “Good morning, Fenris.”

            He nodded in return, “Somniari.”

            A trace of disappointment lined the mage’s mouth before he turned back to the table in front of him. Another moment passed as he gathered the documents in front of him and stacked them neatly on the table. He turned completely to face his guest.

            “There is a better place for this, if you would not mind.”

            He pressed his lips together, lyrium stretching over his chin. Yes, traffic through the rotunda would likely disturb them. “If you lead, I will follow.”

            He gestured to the door Fenris stood in front of and made his way towards him. After a moment, Fenris nodded and turned, pushing back through the doors he had just entered from. The pair stepped into the throne room as a familiar dwarf waltzed into the hall from the front door, a smirk on his face.

            He looked at the two of them, and then squarely at Solas. “I was right.”

            Fenris turned to catch Solas’s confused look. “Pardon?” he asked.

            “If you don’t dawdle you might still catch them,” Varric suggested, completely neglecting to explain what he was talking about. “Go outside and look towards Curly’s office.”

            Fenris wrinkled his nose as Solas sighed and pressed on, his look only getting a wink and shrug from the tight-lipped dwarf. Did they make a bet he wasn’t aware of? What was he talking about?

            Brushing passed the milling nobles, who watched the pair with shameless curiosity, the two elves opened the front door to the main hall and stepped out on to the stone stairs, warmed pleasantly by the late morning sun. A noise rumbled in Solas’s throat as he looked towards where Varric had suggested, Fenris following his line of sight. Not far from the Commander’s office on the upper walls was his distinct fur mantle shifting slightly to the left, visible between two merlons. The movement was followed shortly by his pale blond hair surreptitiously close to a familiar head of red hair.

            Fenris’s expression morphed from confused to mild surprise as Cullen moved in towards her and blocked the Inquisitor from view yet again. The Commander of the army of the Inquisition was canoodling with the Herald of Andraste; a scandal in the making.

            “Varric seems to be more perceptive than he appears,” Solas said simply before turning to the stairs that lead to the courtyard below.

            Fenris followed behind him as he considered this new development. Lavellan’s romantic endeavors were none of his business, though the couple’s lack of secrecy seemed like a poor decision. Granted, if the rumor was going to spread the fastest through any part of the organization, it was undoubtedly going to be the barracks, and Cullen’s direct association with his soldiers would likely render any attempts to hide the affair moot.

            As they touched down on the grass of the courtyard, Solas made a sharp turn to move underneath the staircase, Fenris hot on his heels as he mulled over any sign that Lavellan was interested in Cullen while he distracted himself from the jittery feeling in his nerves. She had teased him before, it was a fairly common occurrence. He’d also known her to be rather...licentious, if the back and forth between her and Iron Bull when they were drinking particularly heavy was any indication. Pursuing the Commander seemed out of left field.

            The again, he had seen her going in the direction of his office more often than usual recently. He nearly tripped on the second staircase down to the lower bailey when he recalled her response when he had called her out on it.

            _“Nope, though I suspect we have similar motivations.”_

            He groaned and steadied himself, glaring into the middle distance. No. No! She _knew_ he had been waiting on the mage to give him the research notes. What in the world would give her any other impression? Did this have something to do with that future she saw, the weird way she’d been looking at the two of them? Was she just trying to screw with him?

            He halted on his dissent, nearly running into broad shoulders as the elf in front of him had stopped, wearing a curious expression as he looked back at him. “Are you all right?”

            Fenris met his eyes for a second before shaking his head and averting his gaze. “Yes, I’m fine. Let us continue.”

            After a quick glance back in the direction of the couple, Solas turned quickly and they continued, the two passing the Circle tower, the merchants set up in a makeshift bazaar near the entrance, and the stables in the far corner. Solas gestured to a grassy area under a tree near the corner of the high fortified walls. There was no one around the area, and most gathered closer to the stables, which was about fifty feet away if not further. It was more secluded than the rotunda, but not completely cut off and private.

            “Would this area be sufficient?”

            “Is it? You will be the one casting the spell,” Fenris responded, abandoning his temporary attempt to distract himself from the events about to transpire. He’d have his memories back; he’d truly be himself for the first time in…possibly since receiving the markings in the first place. His stomach flipped as the anxiety hit him with full force.

            “You will also need to be able to concentrate,” Solas responded. When Fenris nodded, he drew his blue gaze back and approached the tree.

            Settling down in the shadow of the deciduous tree, Solas situated himself across from Fenris, cross his legs underneath him. After his companion became comfortable, he began to speak.

            “Firstly, there is a matter of the type of spell that was used to rid you of your memories,” Solas began, but Fenris answered first.

            “It is a barrier keeping it within me.” At Solas’s surprised look, he explained, “I—Apologies, I had read the notes to the best of my ability while I was waiting for you to return.” He grimaced, he shouldn’t have interrupted.

            Solas looked at him for a moment, his expression trained to neutrality, before continuing, “You are correct,” his tone belied that he was impressed with him, “Despite your lack of familiarity with magic you…ah.” He stopped himself and cast his gaze away for a moment before coming back to him. “It is a barrier, and though the original caster never deliberately created a way to reverse the spell, your sister was very diligent in finding that path.”

            “Did the altus finish his translation of Danarius’s notes, then?” Fenris asked.

            He nodded, “Sometime yesterday morning, in fact. He delivered them to me not long after you left.”

            Fenris nodded, “He is good for something, at least.”

            Solas smiled briefly before continuing, “I believe I am able to remove the barrier. However, because Danarius cast this spell on you multiple times, I will need to surmise the situation before attempting to remove it. It is a delicate process, and I do not wish to damage your recollection any further.”

            He nodded once more, “What do you need from me?”

            Solas shifted, “For now, simply close your eyes and relax.”

            He could certainly try. The anxious elf took a deep breath and did as he was told, sitting up straight and trying to relax his shoulders. He laid his hands over his legs as he heard Solas shift again in front of him, something emerging to break the light filtering through his eyelids. He didn’t flinch.

            A prickle at the dots on his forehead alerted him to the magic before the gentle breath of it cascaded softly over the rest of his face, the side effects of the probing magic pleasant and benign. He had become so used to forceful, angry, and rough magic that sometimes the calm and gentle spells of other mages still sometimes confused or surprised him. Solas’s in particular had always struck him as strange. His healing magic on his broken arm had been incredibly painful, but no more than rushing the healing of a bone could be expected to hurt. There was an ease in the spell as well, as if he were trying to be gentle or soothing during the process. Perhaps it was simply an effect of his magic.

            After a minute or two of silence, the magic ceased and the ache on his forehead receded as well. Fenris waited a moment before opening his eyes, his pupils adjusting quickly to match the amount of light outside. Solas’s expression worried him.

            “Can it be removed?” he asked, hesitantly. The idea of it being permanent or too dangerous to risk frankly scared him.

            “Yes,” Solas answered. Fenris allowed himself to look relieved as he continued, “However, he was not careful when layering the spells when he had cast them.”

            He was given a confused look and Solas took a moment to consider his wording. “I was hoping he had cast the barriers cleanly, layering them on top of one another, like the walls of a fort.” He gestured briefly to the high walls around them to further illustrate his point. “They would be fortified, but uncomplicated, and much easier to remove if they were all separate. However, they appear to be intertwined.”

            That didn’t sound hopeful. “What does that mean?”

            “It means that, in order for me to remove them, I will need to untangle the barriers, essentially,” he answered, frowning. “It will take time, and I would suggest meeting daily to remove them, or another time frame that would work for you.” A pause before he added, “I am sorry.”

            Despite his disappointment, he offered the mage a comforting look, “You need not apologize, somniari. You are helping, and that is all I can ask for. Beyond accompanying the Inquisitor, I can meet daily.” It was a shame it couldn’t be taken down immediately, but he hadn’t truly expected it to be that simple. Perhaps Varania had done something when she had tried to remove the barrier for the few seconds she was able before her death, or Danarius simply had cast without much care for the after effects.

            Solas returned the soft look, “I am glad.” He paused and glanced around towards the inner part of Skyhold to see that they were still largely alone. “Would you like to begin now?”

            At Fenris’s enthusiastic nod, Solas smiled and began to describe the process. “As I unravel the barriers and remove them, likely in pieces, you may see your memories coming back. Since you have said previously that you tend to experience them as dreams, and that receiving them while conscious is rather disconcerting, I would suggest you enter a meditative state during the process.”

            The former slave looked apprehensive, “The…pain from the magic will make that difficult.”

            He was given a frown in return, as if the mage hadn’t considered that point. “I…yes. I will do my best to make that pain as negligible as possible.” Once Fenris had nodded, he added, “There is also a possibility that I may…witness memories that you regain, though I am not sure as to how often this will occur, if at all.”

            That idea Fenris didn’t like very much. The risk of embarrassment and aspects of his private life no longer being so was an incredibly unappealing idea.

            He must have looked irritated because Solas sighed. “It is admittedly unlikely, but possible. I am simply warning you now so it is not an issue in the future.”

            “Can you…” Fenris began, trailing off to consider how to say what he wanted. He wanted some sort of security or promise from Solas in regards to particularly sensitive memories. Anything to abate any potential awkwardness later on. “Is there a way that you could remove yourself from the memory if it is…very private?”

            Solas wore an expression that suggested he had no desire to see anything of that nature. “I can, though it would mean whatever part of the barrier I am working on will remain as it was. Leaving it may disrupt the memory, like abandoning the plug on a filled barrel only for it to slide back into place in your absence. I can come back to it later, but any progress will be lost.”

            He could manage extending the visits if it meant keeping his dignity intact. “I can handle that compromise,” he informed him with a stern voice.

            Solas nodded, “How long would you like to do this before departing?”

            Fenris had to restrain himself from saying, “As long as it takes,” fearing how desperate that made him sound, along with the added impossibility of that time frame. “Perhaps until I see a memory,” he responded instead, pausing to glance up at the sun’s position, “Or 3 o’clock, whichever comes first.”

            The mage’s gaze followed his to note the sun before nodding in agreement. “Then let us begin.”

            After taking a breath and closing his eyes, Fenris resumed the position he had been in previously, concentrating on the sounds around him. Even as the magic started on his skin again, he tried to ignore the thorny feeling along his brands while slowly blocking out each of the sounds around him one by one. Meditation had become helpful when he found the time and was in a calm state of mind, though in the past that had been fairly rare. He had found some semblance of peace while meditating, despite it being uncommon for him to partake in it. Sitting outside in the sun felt comfortable, peaceful, even if he was nervous about his memories.

            Once the sounds about him were muffled, blocked from registering in his consciousness, he concentrated on the magic weaving around him, inside him. It curled gently, like smoke drifting lazily from the end of a pipe. It swelled and reached, stretching before collapsing on itself in a curl that drifted, thin and languid. Careful, branching slowly as it felt for the right place. Up and up and…

            He smelled the ale and smoke before a slap erupted and woke him out of his concentration. He glared across the table of the tavern at Isabela, who rolled her eyes as she pulled her boots from off the top of the wooden structure between them.

            “If you don’t mind, we are _trying_ to play cards,” Anders spat from Varric’s right, the dwarf busying himself with the pair of cards clutched in his hand.

            “Why don’t we get a few drinks, hm?” Merrill suggested sweetly, her eyebrows curling up as she tried to ease the tension in the group, mainly from Anders.

            Varric smiled at her encouragingly, “That’s a great idea Daisy. Another round!” The dwarf waited a moment before tossing a few more coins into the pot. Merrill stood to get the attention of the bar keep.

            Anders clicked his tongue against his teeth and eyed Varric’s raise like it personally offended him. Perhaps it had. “You really think you have that good of a hand?” he asked, incredibly doubtful.

            “Only one way to find out, Blondie,” the smug dwarf answered, receiving a sigh in return as the mage buried himself in his cards, the feathers around his neck ruffling like they were attached to his skin.

            Fenris turned to the cards held between his gauntlets and frowned. He’d largely gotten used to the rules of Diamondback, but he had no poker face to speak of. That and he sometimes forgot which cards were higher than the others.

            “You lost?”

            He turned to Hawke as he hovered beside him, looking over his shoulder. He’d dropped out at the beginning of the game and was content just to watch everyone for now. The man had mentioned that he was still trying to adjust to living in Hightown and complained about the attitude of his neighbors, though you could tell he took a level of enjoyment in it. He liked ruffling their primped hair and fragile attitudes, and if just his existence offended them, everything else was just icing on the cake, even if his mother didn’t approve.

            Fenris leaned slightly towards Hawke and adjusted his cards so Hawke could get a better look. “I believe Varric has a better hand. I think I should fold.”

            Hawke shook his head, immediately dismissing the idea. He scratched at his unkempt, short beard as he squinted at the cards, his eyes calculating. This wasn’t uncommon, truth be told, Hawke dropping out and letting everyone else play. He seemed to prefer watching his friends have fun than winning anything. He had been offering his help to others quite a bit lately, mainly Merrill and Fenris since they were the newest players. Fenris frowned when he realized that he probably missed Carver. How could you send a letter to a traveling band of Grey Wardens anyway?

            “The queen,” Hawke said in a low voice, glancing at Anders as the mage pulled his eyes away from the two of them and reached for some coins to toss down. He continued and tapped the edge of it in Fenris’s fan. “The Magician can snag you a win, and the Queen makes it the third best combination you can have,” he explained, moving to touch the other card. Fenris tried to ignore the fact that he could smell his hair from him being so close. It was incredibly distracting.

            Fenris turned to meet his eyes, his brow low over them. Most who didn’t know Hawke would think he constantly looked angry or upset, but the longer you spent with him, the more you learned how to tell the minute differences between his expressions. He was being honest, helpful, if not still stern.

            “I would take the risk,” he said, flattening his hand in a shrug, “If you want I can spot you.”

            Fenris frowned, “I do not wish to be in your debt again, Hawke.”

            He offered him a genuine grin and ran his hand through his short dark hair, scratching at a spot on his crown. “I don’t mind, Fenris.”

            “You done cheating, elf, or are you handing your winnings to Hawke?”

            Fenris breathed, not realizing he’d stopped, and turned to shoot Varric a look, who was scratching at his jaw with the top of his cards.

            He glanced at Hawke who gestured to the pot with a more restrained smile and acquiesced. He tossed a few more coins in to meet Anders’s previous bet. A scoff came from Isabela who tossed her cards out in front of her, effectively folding.

            Hawke leaned back in his seat as Varric looked at the coins and his cards, muttering to himself. Fenris nearly jumped when he felt warm fingers against the exposed skin of his arm, but he fought the flinch, his breath coming out of his nose in a rush. Merrill stood when the waitress came, a small wave of celebration resounding from the table at the arrival of more booze. Glancing back at Hawke who quickly sent him an inquiring look, Fenris turned back to the others and leaned into his touch, ignoring the needling feeling as Hawke’s aura seeped into his brands. Broad fingers stiffened as tawny skin met his palm, but quickly relaxed and began a slow, reassuring caress between the lines of lyrium there. For the first time in what felt like a long time, they both took a moment to truly relax in each other’s company.

            He closed his eyes and the noise of the tavern pulled away, and was quickly replaced with an angry fire burning in his chest. Before he could contemplate the feeling, the touch he’d felt on his arm was on his shoulder.

            “So much for not killing her.”

            He wrenched away from him and wiped the fresh blood off of his face. The overpowering, familiar smell of copper and the Veil lacing through his skin had him on edge. He opened his eyes and glared at Hawke, shoving a finger against his chest.

            “What is there to _discuss_ , Hawke? Are you upset that I killed her, that I lied to her? Her promise was worth _nothing_!” he retorted, gesturing to Hadriana’s corpse as she lie on the ground in her own blood, a crushed heart in her chest. “This ‘sister’ could just be another fabrication in a long line of lies they’ve used to manipulate me. If she _is_ real, who’s to say that I could do anything with that information? If Hadriana knows she exists, that means Danarius knows without a doubt. This couldn’t be anything but another trap!”

           Hawke squared his clean-shaven jaw and pinned that look on Fenris, the one that stilled people in their tracks, but it did nothing to him. It had no effect here, not now, it hadn’t for years. “She’s your sister, Fenris, your family. Surely that means something to you.”

            Family, family, _family!_ What did that word even mean? What was the point of a family when they can simply be taken away from you? What use did he have for a family?

            Fenris shook his head and scowled, “All that matters is that I finally crushed this bitch’s heart. She’s just like every other mage; they abuse their power and use whatever they can to loom over everyone else, crushing them under their heel.” He gestured as he spoke, losing his filter as he let the inky pain envelop him, the hatred he thought he’d shirked years ago. This pain was still in him, deep, buried, boiling and aching now that the hunters had reappeared.

            He heard Anders scoff from somewhere behind them, their voices echoing against the walls and mingling together. The stink of blood magic was threatening to put him in a fog, pull him under, and Fenris concentrated on that anger to fight it.

            “Please, let’s not forget who you’re speaking with,” Hawke tried again, his staff strapped securely to his back as he brought his hands back to himself.

            Fenris shot him a look and paced away from the corpse, shaking his head, “Haven’t you been paying attention? Did you see the sacrifice when we first entered; the lifeless slaves strewn about the place?” He couldn’t keep the venom from his tone if he tried, and he didn’t have a mind to anymore. He spun towards Hawke and gestured wildly as he spoke, “They can always make up a reason, find any excuse to do whatever they want to whomever they want. Kill a servant to get more power, slit a man’s throat to summon a demon, use a slave to entertain a few guests.” He glanced at the lines on his hands, feeling a stab of self-loathing shoot through him that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?” He hated how pitiful he sounded.

            Garret Hawke’s voice was soft in the silence after his anger, a reassuring caress, “Fenris…”

            No, no. He didn’t need this right now. Fenris shook his head and took a breath, not daring to glance at Hawke as he rejected him now, turning towards the exit of the Holding Caves. “No I…I need to go.” He pushed by the other two without looking at them, making his way to solitude as quickly as he could. The regret of pushing Hawke away was already suppressing his rage as he stomped across the sandy beaches of the Wounded Coast. Hawke had simply wanted to help, that’s all he’d ever wanted. He’d told him of the Fog Warriors, about Tevinter, and he’d listened. Even now, he’d simply wanted to help him and, he just…blamed his kind for everything.

            He made a disgusted sound and squeezed his eyes shut as he retreated to take some time to think. To get away from everyone, to collect himself. His heart racing, running from the lingering feeling of being trapped in those caves, running from the hatred that had steeped in his gut, from the pain he’d caused to the person he’d cared most about… It was what he’d always been good at.

            The sounds of the gulls and the sea raced away from him as if being drawn away into a void, and his eyes shot open. He took a breath and placed his hand in the grass beside him, steadying himself as he sat under the shade of a short tree. Wh-where was—?

            “Fenris, relax, you are in Skyhold. _Ane ethalas_ , _reva’lin_ , you are safe.”

            He didn’t think he could feel more relieved to hear Solas’s voice, even more so than when he’d come back to Skyhold. He relaxed his shoulders as he tried to collect himself, his heart beat still galloping in his chest, limbs shaky and unbalanced. There was so much to take in, so much that he remembered, and so much of it that finally _stuck_. It was almost too good to be true, that he still remembered. Not fleeting, but concrete.

            He brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes and his forehead, the lyrium pulsing erratically from the shock of recollection. A lot of things made sense now. He knew some of their faces, their voices. He remembered their names and their personalities, some of their history. It was still spotty, there were still years missing, a lot of years, but there was far more to draw on than he ever thought he would have. He felt much more grounded, even if right now he was reeling from it all.

            And most importantly, he could finally identify that emotion he felt when he was around Hawke. Well, he could recognize one of them, and the intense affection he had harbored for him quite honestly scared him.

            “Fenris?”

            He pushed himself up and took a gulp of air, opening his eyes and squinting at the bright sunlight before looking back at Solas’s concerned expression. He sighed and took his hand away from his face, looking at the lines as the glow finally faded. He drew his eyebrows together.

            “You are not,” he heard Solas say as he reached up to touch his hand, but stopped at the last moment. Green eyes turned to meet blue ones, and neither of them spoke.

            Fenris narrowed his eyes, “Not what?” His tone was challenging.

            Solas thinned his lips assessing and deciding. “Ruined.”

            He blinked, surprised, his heart shuddering pleasantly in his chest.

            Before he could reply, Solas retracted his gesture and changed the subject, “It appears that if I see your memories, it is from an outside perspective.” Fenris clenched his hand and lowered it, listening as he continued, “Just because you felt these things before does not mean that you feel them now.”

            Fenris wrinkled his nose, “Are you concerned that I will hate you? That I will lash out at you like I did Hawke, undeserved and uncalled for?”

            Auburn brows furrowed at the suggestion. “No, I do not. I simply—,”

            “You guys having a picnic?”

            Fenris prickled and turned abruptly to see Lavellan standing a little ways off with a smile plastered on her face. He couldn’t imagine why…

            Solas responded first, “We are in the middle of something at the moment, Inquisitor. I apologize.”

            Fenris rebutted him, “What do you need, Inquisitor?”

            The mage glanced at him and shifted as Lavellan looked between them, her grin faltering.

            “It’s okay, I can leave if—,”

            Fenris heard Solas sigh, “No, please, we are at your disposal.”

            Her smile came back three fold, “I’m heading out with Bull to take a look around the Emprise du Lion for a brief time while Josephine arranges some political matters I’ll have to attend to when I get back. You guys wanna come?”

            “I will be happy to accompany you, Lavellan,” Fenris responded, earning a wink from the cheerful elf.

            Solas glanced at Fenris before agreeing. Lothriel responded by clapping her hands together.

            “Wonderful! We’ll be heading out in thirty minutes! Meet you at the gates!” she said before turning and scampering off towards the main castle.

            Fenris stood, steadying himself against the tree as his head threatened to send him into vertigo again. He felt a gentle hold on his arm and turned, Solas helping him straighten up. He met his eyes, realizing that he was touching him, despite faltering just a moment ago. As they looked at each other Fenris realized that the somniari had called him something before. What had it been? Reva-something?

            “What did you call me before? What does it mean?” he asked, Solas’s touch lingering on his arm, firm but gentle.

            Solas pressed his lips together, “We will speak of it later, if you wish.” He pulled his hand away and began to make his way through the lush grass towards the side entrance of the main keep not far away. As Fenris moved to follow after him, he watched as Solas flexed his fingers at his side before gliding soundless through the open door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I challenge your love for my ship by directly reminding you of the one you love the most! How did it hold up?  
> I definitely slipped the Darcy Flex in there (as the Solavellan fandom is calling it) for your pleasure, of course.
> 
> _Ane ethalas_ = "You are safe." From the [Project Elvhen Lexicon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848/chapters/8237548)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been a while since I updated, but I definitely haven't given up on this story! Thanks to everyone for being patient and asking about it; it keeps me going knowing that people are waiting on me and motivates me to work out my issues with the narrative. Since this is a rareship I've been really happy about the response it's gotten, so thank you all for that. I have other related and unrelated projects in the works, so keep an eye out for those as well. :)

            The air in his lungs turned ice cold in an instant, the chill muting out the stab of pain that shot through him.

            He was collapsed in the snow, he realized, the sting of the cold frost melting against his heated skin beginning to get uncomfortable. For a moment he couldn’t remember why, pushing himself off the ground as he tried to shake the bleary fog from his eyes. A red blur caught his attention, a shock of color against the snowy ground underneath him. A coil of tattered cloth wrapped securely around his wrist rested by his side.

            The red cloth pulled at his memory and he stopped, drawing his eyebrows together to look over it. Now that he noticed the article, it felt constricting, as if it were tied too tightly around his skin and was cutting off circulation to his fingers, despite it being on the outside of his armor. Its weight was unexpected; the mass held his limb firmly to the ground and it took an immense effort just to move.

            At the shuffle of snow and huff of hot breath somewhere behind him he remembered. He didn’t have to turn to know the wolf was there, pursuing him, chasing after him through the wood. He had been here before.

            The small chorus of growls and breathing in front of him finally came to him. He pulled his eyes up, realizing that he was in a clearing and directly across from him was a pack of black wolves, fanned out in a slow crawl to encircle him in their ranks. Closing in, predator to prey. He was cornered on both sides.

            He heard a short bark behind him and turned just in time to see the wolf crouch to leap. Almost on instinct he ducked, hoping the canine would overshoot him and he could run from whence he came to escape and find a place to hide, or at the very least gain some advantage over the creatures. To his chagrin the wolf landed on top of him instead, straddling him with its body, massive paws anchored on both sides of him. Fenris flinched and looked up as he brought his good arm up to block his neck. The wolf was a dark umber color with marbled stripes of yellowish brown along the scruff of its neck, leading to a gray color on its underbelly. The wolf looked straight ahead at the encroaching horde, its head high and commanding, heavy paws resolute. It did nothing towards Fenris, barely acknowledging him.

            He blinked, shocked and then confused. The wolf was…protecting him? Why did he chase him here? He glanced back to see a black wolf laying behind them, dark blood pooling underneath it as whiffs of yellow rose and disappeared from its eyes, resembling the twirling smoke of a newly snuffed candle. Or the death of the Solas’s… “friend” in the Exalted Plains.

            He turned back to a muzzle in his face as the wolf sniffed at him. Fenris pushed back into the snow, away from the beast on instinct, baring his teeth with his arm still up over his neck. The red ribbon flitted gently in the still air at his movement. Fenris’s heart was hammering in his chest, the blood thrumming through his ears so loud that he imagined the animals could hear it.

            The beast pulled its head back sharply at his reaction, its shining blue eyes appraising him for another minute before turning towards the group of wolves that had slowly been encroaching on them. Growls rippled across the opposing pack, their dark coats specked by the gently falling snow. They had yellow eyes like their fallen brethren, fiercely antagonistic and locked onto the blue eyed wolf over Fenris. None of them glanced down at him. The wolf above him was less aggressive, wearing an aura of calm but unshakable defiance and confidence.

            He could still escape, the elf realized. If the wolf over him attacked the horde, or if he flipped the animal off him, he could still run, with the added benefit of the pack potentially being distracted with—

            He stopped then as he pictured a swarming mass of black fur and yellow eyes completely smothering the form of the umber wolf as they pressed it into the snow, glinting white fangs shining against their dark coats as they leaned down to tear into it, strangled cries and wails striking through the air as the wolf was completely torn asunder.

            He shuddered violently, willing the image away, a knot of guilt wedging itself in his throat. No, he would be abandoning something that only wanted to save him, something that risked putting itself in a vulnerable position for him. Some…one…

            His shudder seemed to break the beasts out of their battle of wills, one wolf leaning forward out of the pack toward the blue-eyed wolf, barking out harsh and short, its hot breath coming out in a heavy cloud. Its ears were down, its fur sticking up high along its shoulder blades. Its fellows stood similarly, tension mounting along the rigid lines of their backs.

            The blue-eyed wolf snuffed at it, almost looking to frown in a sort of disapproving or mocking grimace.

            The pack reacted in a wave of shocked, then territorial and angry reactions, growling as their heads dipped low to the ground, huffing in clouds against the cold terrain. Fear rushed back up into Fenris again, coiling around his gut in a tight hold. This stupid wolf was going to get them both killed!

            The black wolf who had uttered the challenge leapt forward, springing towards the blue eyed canine, its maw wide and ready to take hold. That’s it, Fenris thought. They were all going to leap forward and shred them both. Instead of escaping and leaving the wolf to die, they were both going to die.

            He took a sharp breath and shifted to grab at the attacker, pulling his hand back as the blue-eyed wolf reared back on its hind legs briefly and wound itself back around, striking at the leaping wolf, its teeth snapping around the other wolf’s throat. The fiend let out a cramped howl as its windpipe was crushed and Fenris moved immediately, a flash of light sprang from him as his fist closed around the wolf’s heart.

            It died as the other wolves ran and leapt across the clearing, fangs and eyes bright and dangerous. The leader shuddered and burst into black smoke, its eyes leaving trails of yellow in contrast to the rest of the cloud. The others followed suit immediately, soft yelps before fading into smoke as they collided with Fenris and his companion, once dangerous beasts now nothing but vaguely scented vapor.

            Fenris shivered and pushed himself up, waving at the vapor in an effort to clear it from his senses. The wolf moved to stand by him and sniffed gently, seeming to be quickly recovered from the encounter now that the threat was gone. The elf shook the hair out of his face and anchored himself up with his tied wrist, wincing when he put weight on to it, the construction causing pins and needles to spring along his skin. He looked towards the red with an apprehensive look in its eyes before turning to look at his furry friend.

            “I suppose I should thank you,” he muttered, the creature’s ears turning toward him as it lifted its head, meeting his eyes with a cautious, but expectant gaze. Fenris frowned, “I thought you were one of them. I apologize.”

            He lifted his hand to pet the creature and stopped, the wolf turning his eyes sharply from his face to the approaching hand, waiting. It looked tense at the idea of being touched and he withdrew the gesture, sympathizing. “Well, I offer my humble thanks regardless,” he offered, receiving a slight bow in response.

            He smiled gently before turning his attention back to the red cloth. It hurt and was a hindrance if he wanted to get out of here; he needed to be rid of it. He reached down to pull at the cloth, wedging a talon from his gauntlets into the knot as his companion looked on. He felt a tremor of something familiar, magic curling through him and he shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation.

            His chest expanded suddenly and he sat up in a flash, eyes opening again. The first thing he noticed was the harsh cold of ice underneath him. The second was the fresh corpse of a large dragon not fifty feet away from him, splayed on its side with Iron Bull pumping his fists into the air with unused excitement, Lothriel and Solas not too far off from him looking winded. After a moment he remembered they were in the Emprise du Lion and that he had been fighting before being knocked out. The blood from the open wounds of the dragon was yet to freeze, and each of the cuts had a small amount of mist rising from the heated skin. The scent of it was carrying to his lungs, the rich metallic tang an incredibly unpleasant smell.

            He groaned and rolled over to push himself up, feeling the tingling itch of the barrier receding from his skin and back into the Fade as he did. Taking hold of the silvery maul he wielded, he pressed the flat of its top on to the thick ice under him and hoisted himself to stand, leaning on it for support.

            He heard their footsteps close in before raising his face to look at them.

            Bull whistled, sword propped on a bruised shoulder. “Wow, Fen, it knocked you back pretty far, huh?”

            Fenris coughed and winced at a mild pain in his side. “Yeah.” It was a miracle they were able to take the dragon down at all, considering their team make up. Pure offense was a poor strategy against a creature ten times bigger than you were.

            Lothriel worried over him without touching him before frowning, her left eye swelling shut with a scale pattern clear over part of her face. “Let’s go back to the camp, shall we?” she suggested, giving the other two an expectant look with her one good eye. “And Bull, next time we take a dragon, let’s make sure the famed dragon hunter is with us next time, okay?”

            He sighed and nodded, hoisting his weapon to secure it behind him. “Alright, boss.”

            The camp was not a far hike from their location in the snowy mountains of the empire, though the cold and injuries made the walk slower than it necessarily might have been. Fenris’s new armor was much better than the generic Inquisition armor he had been given for a time while they repaired his arm piece; it was heavy in the right spots and lighter in others, particularly around his legs. Walking around in the snow would have been that much more unbearable if it had been in ill-fitting apparel. Luckily for him, Lavellan was as good as her word.

            The wind picked up for a brief moment and a blast of warm, humid air rode along the wind and hit him in the face, immediately drawing him to turn towards it in search of its source. Not too far away he could see steam rising from a slightly higher area of the mountain a bit closer towards camp.

            The warmth seemed to alert the rest of the group as well as they all turned in the same direction. It was Lavellan who spoke first.

            “Wow!” she exclaimed, her excitement managing to push through her tired irritation over the dragon from earlier. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen hot springs before.”

            Neither had Fenris, not in the general wilderness like this, naturally bubbling from deep within the mountain. The steam rose thick now that he finally noticed it, dissipating quickly as it hit the dry cold air of what once was the harsh north of the Dales. He peered over towards the pools and noticed the statues erected around them, just tall enough to tell they were not a part of the mountain, but not enough to tell much else.

            Iron Bull canted his head and swiveled it towards Lavellan, his horns making the movement appear a lot more dramatic than it really was. “Hey, why don’t we go over and relax?” he suggested, waving gently in the direction of the simmering pools. “We got rid of the dragon near here, right? Besides, seems like you could use it.”

            Lavellan rolled a shoulder, a loud pop resounding when she pulled it backwards followed by a wince. “Let’s get patched up first. Then we’ll see.”

            They made their way to camp fairly quickly after that, the four of them going straight for the medical supplies to acquire any aid they needed. Aside from having low mana reserves, Solas was no worse for wear compared to the others, and he took to milling about the line of tents, looking off up the mountain path they had just traveled down.

            The remaining three sat around the fire when they were finished healing and cleaning their wounds, the sun beginning to descend closer to the peaks of the mountains in the distance. The high statues of human warriors and broken ruins began to cast long shadows over the bright snow, now turning slightly orange as the sky above slowly turned toward afternoon.

            Lavellan inquired after the hot springs up on the mountains and once she heard their name, recalled a Dalish legend she had heard about them. According to their mythos, the pools were what remained of the sun after their god Elgar’nan caused it to fall before it was later placed back up in the sky. She told it to them around the camp fire, Iron Bull seeming amused at the prospect of killing the sun itself while Fenris acknowledged with little thought in effort to understand the reasoning behind it. He had never been one for Dalish legends and gods, considering the Dalish had never seemed to really care that much for the plight of anyone but themselves. It was interesting to learn, but it remained an avenue he would likely not look into.

            When Solas finally deigned himself to join them once they had gotten a semblance of a meal made, Bull turned to Lavellan with a grin.

            “So, boss…” he started, bowl of steaming soup in hand. “The commander, huh?”

            The expectant smirk that she wore slid into a more reserved smile as she averted eye contact with him for a moment. Fenris blinked, stunned at the prospect of Lavellan actually feeling _shy._ It wasn’t as if they had made any real effort to hide colluding, after all.

            She shrugged noncommittally before looking back at him, “Yeah.”

            Bull reeled his smirk in a bit. Well, only for a moment. “Figured you’d be more excited; it _is_ the commander, after all.”

            Lavellan scoffed, “Of course I’m excited. It’s just…different, that’s all.”

            The qunari cocked his head with a raised eyebrow, “Yeah? Different how?”

            She made another noncommittal noise and made a show of eating the stew in front of her.

            Iron Bull laughed, “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you _liked_ him, boss.” He was clearly having a great time teasing her, since most of the time when they joked with each other it was on equal footing.

            Fenris remembered her regular walk through the rotunda not too long ago. “So it would seem. She did go visit him on a regular basis.”

            Iron Bull raised an eyebrow at Fenris and turned back to the Inquisitor just as she did the same thing. After swallowing her mouthful, she sat up straight and looked back at the elf with one gleaming eye, her bruising around her right eye finally having progressed to shutting it completely.

            “You would know after I ran into you in the rotunda three days in a row.”

            Fenris scoffed and shifted in his seat, “This again?”

            She winked and relaxed her posture slightly, preferring to be the one doing the teasing rather than the other way around.

            Iron Bull hummed a moment before turning back to Lavellan. “I don’t know, boss. He was there for something about his memories right?”

            Fenris grumbled an affirmative answer, doing his best to resist glancing at Solas to read whatever his expression was to this topic of conversation. A part of him didn’t want to know, and he was still working through exactly how he felt about that.

            “And who’s to say I wasn’t just checking in on Cullen for Inquisition business, hm?” she replied, if only a bit defensive.

            “I mean, you weren’t always, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about it, right?” the qunari responded quickly, the two of them slipping back into their comfortable banter now that she had managed to shirk some of the attention off of her shoulders, reliving the tension of Iron Bull’s scrutiny by doing some teasing of her own.

            Fenris concentrated on his meal, feeling the sun on his skin breaking through the cold ever so slightly as the wind ceased and the snow stopped falling overhead. It reminded him of the warmth he felt when Solas had touched him and he shook his head to frighten the recollection away, lest it come back in earnest just from thinking about it. Now was not the time, and he blamed the Inquisitor’s influence from bringing it up in the first place.

            “Speaking of your memories, Fen,” Lavellan started, Fenris successfully shaking the elf out of his thoughts when he heard her address him, “How is that going?”

            There was a moment of silence as Fenris considered how best to really discuss it, or to simply answer her question. Eventually he simply shrugged, the metal encompassing his right arm clinking together just slightly as he did. “Slow, but…well.”

            “Good,” she said with a genuine smile, “I’m glad you could put that research to good use. How much do you think you’ll recover? Will you remember everything?”

            “I am not certain,” Fenris responded, glancing at Solas who had paused from eating to adjust one of his sleeves. Noticing the lull, he glanced at Fenris before moving his gaze to look at Lavellan.

            “Given time and effort, I hope to return his recollection to some state of normalcy if the dispelling will allow for it,” Solas answered. “Luckily it appears that Dorian did well in regards to translating the texts the Inquisition scouts acquired.”

            At the mention of Dorian, Lavellan leaned back and smirked at Bull who looked back at her with a gentle warning fixed along the curve of his brow.

            “Got something you wanna say, _boss_?” he tested as the Inquisitor tried to remove the grin on her face with little success.

            Fenris cocked an eyebrow and Lavellan turned away from the qunari, up-ending her bowl to scoop the rest of the contents into her mouth hurriedly. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and stood, gesturing in the direction they had come from earlier. “I think we should go and have a nice, hot soak. What do you think?”

            “I was waiting for you to mention that,” Bull answered with a laugh, his excitement clear in how his spine straightening even as he continued to sit. “We could all use a bit of relaxation.”

            “How about you, Solas?” she asked, turning to look at him as Bull quickly took to finishing his meal beside her.

            Solas declined, surprising no one. “No, thank you,” he answered, glancing at the sun’s position as it traveled ever so slowly behind the snowy mountain peaks. “It will be quite late when you return and my time in the Fade is vital.”

            Fenris just caught Bull rolling his eyes before he tipped his bowl to the edge to his lips, covering his expression. He looked to see Lavellan shrug and look back at him expectantly. Discontent with the likely prospect of further prods about his memories or Solas being directed at him between the two of them, he decided to decline. Although he wanted to spend time in the hot springs, he would prefer to be able to actually relax when using them. Despite the chill that would likely come once the sun set, he was already forming a plan to visit them at night on his own.

            “I would prefer to rest here, for now,” he answered, Lavellan frowning in response.

            “That dragon threw you quite a ways,” Iron Bull responded, standing and dwarfing the Inquisitor beside him.

            “They _are_ said to have healing properties,” Lothriel tried, pressing for some reason or another.

            “You can tell me when you return,” he answered, shifting his legs to stretch out in front of him, feeling the pins and needles start to prickle along the soles of his feet from sitting in the same position for too long.

            She accepted his answer and nodded, motioning to Bull to follow her, used dishware in hand as they left to grab supplies before heading out east. Their boots crunched softly over the frozen ground of the camp before they shifted into snow, each step towards relaxation quieter over the soft terrain.

            “You do not wish to go with them?” Solas finally asked him when they had moved out of ear shot.

            Fenris adjusted his sitting position again in an attempt to sit comfortably despite the ache along his back from being thrown. “I don’t particularly want to be there under their scrutiny. If they want to gossip, they can do so without me.” After quickly feeling sore again, Fenris pushed himself to stand, his knees groaning as he put his full weight on them. The cold was only making him stiff and he didn’t much care for the feeling. Perhaps simply moving around would help.

            “I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, Solas making no reply as he turned and walked towards the edge of camp and taking a path around for a time, looking over the landscape of the area. White snow was blotted by the red spikes of lyrium growing out of the ground in various areas, the concentrations of warm red around where the infected templars tended to frequent was an odd and dangerous aspect to the terrain here. Even establishing some of the camps they had made, including the stronghold they had acquired, had proved difficult for forces to stay in for long periods of time. Lavellan had been primarily interested in establishing their presence above worrying about the poisonous substance in the area.

            Fenris stopped as he looked out over the mountains, stepping up to a small boulder to elevate himself and get a better view of the surrounding area. The cold chill hiked as the wind picked up again, the warrior letting out a huff and pulling the hood attached to the cloak under his armor up over his head to buffer the assault on his face and ears. He thought of the dream he had after the dragon had knocked him unconscious, the cold of the air in those mountains lighter than it was here, but it had been far more cutting. The fear he felt when he saw that pack of inky black wolves closing in around him was much more visceral than he had experienced in any dream before, at least ones that he could remember. It was unsettling.

            He recalled the pain and weight of his wrist in the dream, his eyes sliding down to look at his own, free from any binding. He frowned as he flexed his fingers, clenching his hand into a fist for a moment before releasing his hold. What had that been exactly? He didn’t recall wearing anything around his wrists, not voluntarily, and not of a red fabric. It didn’t make any sense, but was anything in the Fade really supposed to make sense anyway? It’s not like he was having a _memory_ of being surrounded by wolves in a forest somewhere and them vanishing into thin air. And then that other wolf, the one that had stood over him…

            A small group of wolves with glowing green eyes stood some ways off from him, their breath coming up in clouds around their muzzles, faces grinning as they panted from rushing across the snow. He turned towards them and watched, noticing them crowding around one wolf that had been injured, likely by red lyrium, judging from the burning orange that weaved around his bleeding leg. The pack all came around him and seemed to not know what to do, recoiling from the gash but otherwise not attacking their brethren.

            The elf regarded them for a moment, thinking about how warm they all seemed huddled together, despite the wounded party member. If it became crazed by infection, it could kill them, or potentially spread its madness to the rest. Despite that, at most he felt pity for the creatures, unaware of the danger that now existed in their midst. The one in his dream had been the opposite: he’d saved him when he was sure he would be caught and killed if he stumbled in his stride. The wolf had been a friend and not an enemy…

            Shaking his head, he turned and jumped off the bolder and made his way in a wide arc back toward the edge of camp, clutching his hood tighter around his head as the snow began to fall again.

            By the time he reached camp proper, it had been a few hours since he’d left for his walk. He pushed his hood back and stepped into one of the open tents that housed extra supplies. Spotting a thin towel, he snatched it and ducked out from under the tent again, glancing over towards the fire. Lothriel stood near the controlled blaze, speaking with a scout, as Iron Bull stood beside her and listened, eyes half-lidded with what most would attribute to boredom, but he was beginning to learn better. Iron Bull was always listening and watching, and if he appeared to not be paying attention, he was likely feigning it to get people comfortable to reveal more than they might have otherwise.

            Content that they had returned and that it was safe to depart, he made eye contact with a scout.

            “Ser Fenris?” he asked, the nose on his pale, Ferelden face red from the cold. He was likely no older than nineteen.

            Resisting the cringe he felt at being given an honorific, Fenris nodded instead. “I’m going up from where the Inquisitor just returned from, if she asks.”

            The boy nodded enthusiastically and Fenris turned to head that way.

            He had underestimated the sun’s heat, he found, as he made his way back up the mountain towards the slope that housed the pools. Haven had been cold and uncomfortable, but he supposed that he hadn’t been on that mountain long enough to notice how much the sun could affect the temperature of a snowy valley. Even Skyhold was comparably warm, with the fortress being built into part of the mountain itself helping enormously in that respect.

            He tucked the towel into a small pack he had and continued on, at least content to know ice wouldn’t freeze over him as he walked back. He would need to be sure to keep his hair dry as well, lest it make him seriously ill.

            As he neared the hot springs, he noticed a very faint glow coming from them, his elven eyes catching them easily in the darkness of twilight. He let out a breath as he steeled himself, his breath fogging heavily before drifting away in the breeze. Pulling the hood around him once more, he stepped more lightly, irritated that the climate hindered his ability to move silently through the snow with the sturdy boots of his armor. The soft crunch of snow underfoot was sure to alert whoever was there even as he tried to walk through the path Lavellan and Iron Bull had taken previously. If worse came to worst he came with a short sword, so if anything he could still defend himself.

            Noticing the trodden ground round through some rocks and on towards the last stretch leading to a separate part of the springs, away from the shallow and open ones slightly further east, he moved to follow them, noticing the dim lighting growing slightly stronger as he approached. He took a quick breath, his sword hand ready to arm himself before moving up the short slope, emerging between the two tall, partially frozen statues, very clearly of Orlesian in artistry now that he could see them.

            The moment he crossed the threshold through the statues the lights went out, small glowing orbs that floated around the pools in an ambient pattern snuffed at his intrusion. He narrowed his eyes to adjust his sight. A pair of slightly illuminated eyes met his, the tell-tale sign of an elf, and he relaxed once the rest of his features fell into place.

            Solas sat opposite the entrance to the only pool in this area, removed and solitary from the others. He looked straight at Fenris, every edge to his body sharp and ready to react to whoever had disturbed him, shrouding them in darkness in anticipation of attack.

            The intimidating glare softened the moment he recognized Fenris as did his posture as he settled back against the edge of the pool, sitting nearly chest deep in bubbling, warm water. The glowing orbs came back then and cast the area in a low, tranquil light, the orbs hiding just under the line of boulders that formed a wall around them.

            Fenris cast his hood off, happy that walls not only secluded the area but also broke through any wind that swept through the valley. “I did not think I would find you here,” he admitted, reaching to undo the clasps of his arm piece.

            “I enjoy visiting ruins when I am able,” he answered, closing his eyes again. “Particularly those of the elves, as you might imagine.”

            Fenris pulled the shoulder of the arm piece away from him and slipped it off, straightening his arm in a stretch now that it was free before placing the armor on the cold stone near the water’s edge. It occurred to him that, as much as Solas spoke of the Fade, they had not really spoken about it together beyond what was necessary. He frowned as the belts of his footwear slipped free and he stepped out of them, shuddering as his soles met the cold stone, though warmed well by its proximity to the heat source. It would be far worse if he was stepping into cold snow. Then again, his pondering continued, he had no real desire to discuss the Fade more than was necessary. All it did was pose a threat to those who were susceptible to the influence of demons on the other side…but if someone could manipulate it as Solas suggested, would that make it more or less dangerous?

            Deciding to entertain the topic at least for a moment, Fenris responded as he removed the rest of the metal parts of his armor and huddled them together in the same area. “What is it about ruins that draws the Fade?”

            Solas didn’t answer at first, the bursting bubbles loud against the quiet dark of evening. As Fenris untied the collar at the front of his chainmail, he spoke. “It is not so much that the Fade is drawn to ancient sites, but that spirits can be drawn to powerful emotions or large events happening in this world. The spirits that observe the people there will take an impression of their will and their thoughts, and that impression remains in the Fade.”

            The chainmail spread neatly over the collected metal by the poolside and Fenris took a breath to settle the nervous shiver in his stomach at revealing any more of himself physically. Sure, he had seen him after being drenched in ale, but that had been different and wholly unintentional. He looked over at Solas whose eyes remained closed, his face as relaxed as he’d ever seen it. His pale skin was flushed from the heat, pink blooming on his chest and his face and he forcibly broke his gaze away lest he stare too long, noticing the pack and bundle of clothing close to him.

            Out of the corner of his eye Solas moved and he looked, meeting his gaze as the mage looked back at him. He turned away.

            “Would you prefer I left?”

            Fenris tensed. “No,” he answered, pulling at the hooks in his tunic. “Just…look away.”

            After glancing at Solas to see his eyes closed once more, he hastily stripped out of his remaining clothes and stepped into the hot water, hissing at the initial shock at the difference between temperatures, but the hiss changed to a sigh by the time he sat down. He moved over towards Solas and squatted, putting himself slightly higher above the water and started to undo his braid. The bubbles breaking around his torso made him feel more relaxed all ready.

            “I thought interaction with this world corrupted spirits,” Fenris replied, letting the tie wrap around his fingers as he broke through the braid, his hair coming loose.

            Solas glanced at him before turning his eyes away, watching the entrance-way. “Direct contact with this world can do that, but this is not direct. The emotions are sewn into the Fade itself; pockets of emotion and memories that can last for eons, only reachable by those who know how to traverse the Fade safely.”

            Fenris hummed, recalling the stories Solas had told Lavellan on multiple occasions while he sat in the library. Then he remembered the inky black of the spirit they had tried to save in the Plains and frowned. That was what corruption looked like? Beyond turning into a demon, perhaps. This was all still new and…difficult to reconcile with his previous understanding of the Fade, and demons, and spirits. Even if those topics unsettled him, they were an unavoidable truth of the world they lived in. If what he understood was incorrect, it could prove dangerous. Yet, even as he told himself that, simply speaking of it made him uneasy.

            “So you come to ruins in hopes of reliving those memories?” he asked, twirling his hair into a bun and securing it with the tie.

            “In a manner of speaking, though I do not relive them per say,” Solas answered, looking over once Fenris sat comfortably back into the water. “I see events through the eyes of others, skewed as they may be to the facts of the events themselves. The soldier who perished at dawn and the siblings in the Chantry at the battle of Redcliffe that I recalled… They were all versions of the same fearsome night.”

            Fenris glanced over at Solas. The mage had looked off into the distance as he recounted those memories, a strange look in his eyes of forlorn wonder. It struck him as both odd yet sad, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

            “If you see through the eyes of people you can’t ever learn the truth,” he said, Solas breaking from his stare into the middle distance, looking at Fenris now. He looked nearly amused. Fenris doubled back, “If the truth is what you’re seeking.”

            “What is truth but a consensus of events?” Solas replied. “History is written by those who survive.”

            His speaking had changed, but Fenris couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Perhaps it was simply the heat getting to him.

            “Facts remain no matter what people agree to,” he responded, settling back against the stone. “Though, I suppose seeing an event through memories is better than not witnessing it at all.”

            “My thoughts precisely.”

            Fenris pressed his lips together and looked over at the entrance to the area. The dim orbs cast a green light over everything around them, just enough to make things easier for them to see. He could make out the space just fine without them, but the light made the scene more…pleasant, perhaps; less like the two of them were sitting alone in the wilderness, although that idea wasn’t necessarily _un_ pleasant… He internally willed that inappropriate and unbidden thought away as soon as it surfaced. The natural heat of the spring was quite enough already.

            Then a thought came to him. “Somniari.”

            “Hmm?”

            “If you can walk the Fade and see memories, can you do the same with dreams?”

            He turned to look at Solas who was wearing a curious expression, the edges of his face diffused by the many sources of light around them.

            “I can.”

            He caught himself before asking the man yet another favor and blinked, looking away.

            Solas pressed. “Why do you ask?”

            “It is nothing,” he rebuffed. “You are doing quite enough already.”

            “Would you like for me to enter your dreams, as well?” Solas asked with a teasing undertone to the question.

            Fenris was thankful for his skin already being flushed by the bubbling water they sat in lest he look even more like a fool. He couldn’t manage to look over at him nor lie. “I ask enough of you already,” he reiterated, voice quieter now.

            He heard a faint chuckle that was nearly swallowed up by the noisy bubbles around them before Solas spoke again. “I do not mind, _reva’lin._ ”

            He straightened, recalling that he had promised to explain that nickname before. “What does that mean?”

            They met eyes and Solas smiled gently for a moment, though his gaze held a strange current of emotions in them. “Literally, it means ‘one who is free,’ though it can also be used to refer to a person who not only is defined by freedom, but embodies it.”

            A bit taken aback, Fenris took a slow breath as he tried to calm the kick in his chest. He felt touched, though it was such a simple thing. Everything was always intentional or calculated about Solas; he wouldn’t just call him something without having a reason to do it. The times he remembered him using it before were all meant in…comfort…?

            The discomfort of having held his breath finally hit him and he exhaled a response. “Embodies,” he finally said, a little embarrassed by the tone of his voice. He couldn’t seem to look away from him even if he tried.

            The current in the mage’s eyes shifted. “It is a part of you, in everything you do,” he explained with a confident, if not somewhat reverent, tone, “You escaped slavery not once but twice, and both times were without the benefit of remembering freedom in the first place.” He gestured towards Fenris, his hand rising from the water momentarily, equally flushed as his chest from the heat. “The branding you endured was meant to bind you and yet you have learned to use it as a means to empower you. I cannot imagine any form of bondage that would hold you for long.”

            He looked away then and brought his own hand out of the water, looking at the lyrium that ran from his fingertips down his palm and further down his wrist, his eyebrows pinched together for a moment. He had not thought of it all in such broad terms, but he was not wrong. Yet there were still times, particularly in his recollection of Kirkwall that the two of them had uncovered, where he had not truly felt free. It had always been fleeting moments of ease surrounded by near constant doubt and fear. With all the outside forces that would likely enslave him once more now gone, he was slowly beginning to realize the relative ease with which he currently lived. Even as he resided within an organization, he was not tied to it by anything formal and agreed to help of his own volition, and that personal freedom was respected in turn. Even if living in Kirkwall was technically freer than living in Skyhold, there was comfort in those high walls rather than constraint. He chose to be there and could leave at any time, if he wished. Kirkwall was only safe so far as he hid; it had not been true freedom, not like now.

            He lowered his hand again. “That is…one way to look at it,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly as he watched the chaos of the water’s surface, “Though it gives me too much credit.”

            “Why do you think so?” Solas asked.

            After a moment he turned to look at the other elf, another of his kind that had not felt enslavement nor necessarily understood that freedom as he did. “Each time I escaped was not of my own volition but the influence of someone else or dumb luck.”

            “You discredit your role, Fenris,” Solas began but stopped when Fenris shook his head.

            “I did not know freedom nor want it until it was thrust upon me. I couldn’t because of this…” he started, gesturing to his head, “These spells. I saw so many who wanted freedom but did not get it; who died never knowing what it was like to be free—.”

            “You believe you are unworthy.”

            Fenris sighed and turned to look at Solas, the mage’s tone shifting to something like understanding. His expression was much the same as his tone before his eyebrows turned and it shifted to one of disagreement. “You are not the first to think such and you will not be the last, so long as slavery exists.” At a questioning look he continued, “I have…helped to free slaves in my time,” Solas answered, glancing towards the entrance once more before back at him, “There were many who felt guilty at obtaining freedom while leaving their peers, friends, and family behind for whatever reasons or circumstances. You are no less worthy than any of them.”

            Fenris’s eyes widened, shocked by this news. “You…helped free slaves? From Tevinter?”

            He canted his head slightly before answering. “I have freed slaves, though you could not know of what I’ve done with events distorting as they do. Suffice it to say that I was simply an agent in helping them acquire the freedom they sought, and that the decision to do so was all their own just as it was yours.”

            He looked away again, very aware of having assumed incorrectly of the man beside him once again and feeling some shame for it. Even if it was tangentially, Solas understood his plight better than he thought he might. An apostate risking his life on multiple occasions to free his brethren from an oppressive regime that could just as easily enslave him or kill him for his transgressions against them. Even though he had magical prowess, Tevinter would likely not look kindly on his deeds.

            “I apologize. I have underestimated you,” he admitted.

            “You are not the first nor the last, I suspect,” he answered, “but, thank you, all the same.”

            “No, thank you, for doing what many speak of and yet do not do,” he responded, looking back at him again. “So many speak of helping, even other elves speak of helping slaves as if it were some far off dream they could never achieve. They don't understand that helping individuals is still something. Even if it doesn’t ‘fix’ the problem, it still means something to those that are now free.”

            Solas exhaled, looking a bit lost for words before he donned a gracious smile. “You are kind.” Even if it was acceptance, it still sounded like he was attempting to shrug it off.

            “I am stating a fact, somniari,” he said after a moment. “Not only have you freed slaves, you do not brag endlessly about it.”

            The smile remained, though the corners of his mouth sharpened slightly. “If we are to state facts, _reva’lin_ , shall I congratulate you on your courage?”

            “Is this because I am no longer a slave?” Fenris asked with a doubting tone.

            “Beyond that,” he extrapolated, “Despite disliking the Fade and magic, you are willing to face that unknown and change your preconceptions. When you first came to Haven, could you imagine allowing an apostate to manipulate a spell surrounding your mind and memories?”

            When he put it that way it made him uneasy, admittedly. “I suppose not.” He smirked then, finding the entire exchange a bit humorous. When he first arrived at Haven, Varric had been his only friend and though he had respected Solas, he could not imagine being as comfortable with him was he was now.

            “It seems we are both courageous and humble,” he said, causing Solas to chuckle beside him.

            The expression transfixed him for a moment before he willed himself to look away, the thudding in chest now too loud to ignore. He had to acknowledge it for what it was, recalling how it had felt when Hawke had touched him all those years ago back at The Hanged Man. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was similar enough to understand that the affection was born from a similar place: respect, admiration, and understanding. This time, at least, it didn’t take him years to figure it out. He knew himself better now, even only just.

            Yet there was still a sort of sadness behind that laugh that nipped at the comfort he found within it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Yona who is incredible and I love her. <3
> 
> A drawing I made months ago of Fenris's new armor can be found [here](http://thelyonface.tumblr.com/post/151755800453/new-armor-for-fenris-in-klexos-now-that-its-been), so you have a frame of reference for it.


	16. Pre-Klexos: Enigma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a stand alone memory, I decided that there was enough here that was really helpful to know about Hawke himself as well as he and Fenris's relationship that it would be better suited as a semi-chapter in the story proper than a work on its own. It's not quite as long as most chapters, but I hope you enjoy it either way.
> 
> There will be a proper chapter coming after this, continue the story after the events of Chapter 15. You can consider this memory and the feelings within it canon to Klexos and Fenris having remembered them by the next point in Chapter 16 when it's appropriate.

            Hawke had changed. Not outwardly, nothing so dramatic as a bodily change that could render him anything less than the proud son of a noteworthy family; nothing that could smear his name from being the Champion of Kirkwall who single-handedly defeated the fearsome Arishock in a one-on-one dual, but it was there nonetheless. There was a seeping despair that seemed to crack his stern brow and frame his eyes with sleepless nights, even on the occasion that he seemed to be in high spirits, knocking back round after round of ale along with the others in the Tavern.

            Fenris reached for a tankard in the middle of the table, chuckling along with some story or other that Isabela was in the middle of telling even as his mind strayed elsewhere. He should likely not be drinking, not now. He had swallowed enough wine to float the regular patrons of the Hanged Man in the last few months, but it seemed best to join in with them, if only in an attempt to stave off the brooding thoughts that had been nagging at the edge of his mind. An attempt that was quickly proving less and less fruitful the more he consumed. Even as he tried to fight the urge to look at him again, for nothing good could come of it, his eyes shifted automatically over to the man as he lifted the cup to his lips to drink, settling hazily in the general vicinity of his face.

            Hawke had kicked back in his chair, balancing on the back legs as he smirked over at Isabela and her story, the pirate slurring through her tale in a way that felt nearly as familiar as the story itself. He was the only apostate of the group to be here tonight, the surge in templar patrols enough to keep them indoors for the time being until the holes in their rotations became more apparent. Hawke may be untouchable, but that security did not extend to his friends when they were not in his company, and since the thwarting of the Qunari invasion, they had to be more careful than ever.

            Not just anyone could see him change, Fenris had come to realize. The fearsome remaining son of the Amell family was not to be trifled with. He continued to stalk the streets of Kirkwall with nary a sneer thrown at him after his Ferelden birth or his apostate status. Even as Meredith’s hold on the city continued to tighten to near strangulation, he was seemingly untouchable. Those closest to him where the only ones that could see the cracks forming over the years. When he had arrived, before any of them had met him, he had lost his sister. Then his brother Carver was taken by the Grey Wardens in the Deep Roads after he was tainted with Darkspawn blood, a last ditch effort to save his remaining sibling. That had been hard enough, even though the brothers seemed to fight constantly, there was still an undeniable respect that lingered between them, and while Hawke was stern and derisive with most of the people he encountered, it was clear that he cared deeply for his family in a way that he would likely never care for his friends. But then, after what happened to his mother…

            Fenris realized nearly too late that Hawke was turning to look at him before he looked away himself, focusing on Isabela as she broke midsentence into a nasally snicker, pausing over the rim of her cup as she made an effort to control herself, if not enough to speak then enough to keep from spilling her drink. Or, well, attempting to, at any rate.

            He let his eyes wander over the busy tavern, the place thrumming with the exuberant drunken den that was normal for this time of night. It had actually picked up some after most of the repairs to Lotown had gotten underway after the Qunari had set sail from the island. It felt like they were rejoicing for months at being rid of the horned men, though to be fair their presence had been tense and constant for years, even if they had largely loomed in the background. Although they had set most of citizens on edge, Fenris had been fairly content to notice that no viddasala had arrived to their shores. If they had, it would mean Kirkwall was going to be wiped out. The idea of being removed from Kirkwall and potentially separated from the only people familiar to him…from Hawke… That what was what had scared him the most.

            “Fenris?”

            His voice broke him from his thoughts, the elf turning easily to look over at the apostate that was on his mind, to an incorrigible extent.

            “Hawke.”

            The man appraised him for a moment, golden eyes shifting slightly as he tried to read Fenris’s face, to dig under his mask and read what he was thinking. The man was intimidating, but only to those who did not know him. In truth, when Fenris had approached him and his group after they had dispatched the Tevinter hunters sent to capture him all those years ago, he was unsure as to whether he could be trusted or not. When he realized he was a mage, it only further unsettled him, but even then, he was like no one, no mage, he had ever met before. If that version of himself could look on him now…

            At length he spoke, “You seem preoccupied.”

            “Isabela has told this story before, but I don’t mind hearing it again,” he replied, looking back to the pirate as she placed her cup gently on the top of the table with some effort.

            “It’s just a boring old story about winning a duel,” she said, waving her hand dismissively with a sarcastic tone. “No fun at all.”

            Fenris rolled his eyes, instantly regretting the expression as the room tilted. He shut his eyes for a few seconds while the world came back into balance in his mind.

            Over the den, he heard a chair scoot away and opened his eyes across the table to see Varric standing from his place.

            “As fascinating as your stories are, serah, I think I’m heading back,” he said, pitching his cup to drain the rest of its contents before placing it back on the surface of the table. “We have work to do in the morning,” he said, giving Hawke a serious look.

            Hawke’s jaw squared as he looked his friend in the eye and nodded. Fenris glanced between the two of them to Isabela who wasn’t paying attention, looking off at a table of strangers close to where she normally stood at the bar. He decided to drink the rest of his ale as well, meeting the rim to his lips and tipping it up to drink quickly. Whatever business they had was likely important to Varric, and despite some of their differences in approach, Hawke was usually ready to leap to help him.

            His stomach shuddered as he scowled, recalling how Hawke had dismissed his plea to clear out the slave holding caves on the Wounded Coast some years back. He had been sure that the threat was over, as if the one party of hunters was but a mild inconvenience, readily dealt with as they bled into the sand. It _had_ been an inconvenience, he realized, and he had been angry with him when they were attacked in the city, but at least he had come to help after all. He recalled how they had shouted in the street, Fenris splattered in blood, with a cold grip of fear of returning home, potentially to a house full of hunters, slowly coiling in his gut before Hawke relented to helping. He had to be convinced, something he had could scarcely recall when it came to helping select other members of the group.

            He sighed as he pulled his empty drink away and put it on the table, eyes shifting up to catch a farewell from Varric and see him turn to head back towards his quarters in the private area of the tavern. Isabela, swayed ever so slightly in her seat, seeming content to finish her story where she had left it.

            “What are you and Varric up to?” Fenris decided to ask, turning towards Hawke as the man peered into his empty cup with disappointment.

            Hawke’s eyes turned up to meet his in an arched sweep, a small sign of his well composed, but likely equal level of intoxication. “Do you remember the mansion that we found Bartrand in?” At a nod, he continued, “There have been reports of it being haunted.”

            “Haunted?”

            “Furniture moving on its own, unexplainable noises, and ghosts, apparently.”

            Fenris flattened his brow in doubt, “You’re really going to take the time to look into this? How long have the new owners even been in the place?”

            “Not long, but we think it might be tied to whatever he had been doing when we showed up last time,” Hawke replied, putting his feet to the floor along with the other legs of his chair to place the empty cup on the table top. “Besides, Varric has done a lot for us. I can afford to take a small amount of time it will take to head to Hightown for a few hours at most.”

            Ignoring the impulse to point out his difference of attitude between his two companions, Fenris shrugged and shifted in his chair. “Fair enough.”

            “Just don’t take me along,” Isabela said after a moment, anchoring herself up with her elbows on the table. “I don’t want to have anything to do with ghosts or whatever is there.”

            “We wouldn’t want you uncomfortable,” Hawke teased, a smirk that spread a little too wide on his face to be a natural expression.

            “Why ruin a perfectly good evening?” the pirate retorted, shrugging with her hands up-turned. She glanced over at a small group near them when laughter erupted from that direction, a sly smile growing over her face as she zeroed in on the men and women sitting there.

            The conversation was likely boring her, Fenris decided. She would probably leave.

            She stood hesitantly and turned back to the two of them, flushed with drink and mind swirling with potential activities. “Speaking of a perfectly good evening, I think I’ll make the most of mine.”

            Hawke shrugged as she gave a little salute and turned to saunter over to the table, pitching her hips in an arch deliberately to draw attention. Fenris had to hand it to Isabela, she was not lying when she told him that she went after what she liked. It was unfortunate for her that he had not been so receptive to being pursued. At least, not by her in particular.

            He turned and caught the end of Hawke rolling his eyes at her back and rubbing at the side of his nose. “I wonder if commitment is something she’ll ever be interested in.”

            Attempting to ignore the guilt that swept inadvertently over him, Fenris decided to turn towards Isabela, watching her introduce herself, and the eyes of two of the men at the table lighting up with eager interest at her presence. “She did return with the artifact,” the elf reminded him. The two had never really gotten along, so he had been surprised when she showed up at the dual to return to book, though he had not been surprised that Hawke had fought to protect her. If a word could be used to describe Hawke, it _would_ be loyalty.

            Hawke sighed, kicking his feet up and leaning back in the chair again, the wood groaning as he did. His heavy boots shook the table when they landed. “I guess she did. Still, that doesn’t mean much for her…pastimes.”

            Hawke had made no real attempt to hide his disapproval of her hobbies, and was particularly uncomfortable the few times they had to venture into The Blooming Rose. When Jethann had flirted with him on their first visit, the offended disgust had colored his face to the point that he looked fit to burst into flames. If he recalled correctly, Isabela had jokingly called him a prude sometime later.

            “I suppose, though the way people treat friendship is not always the same as they treat…other matters,” Fenris replied, finally taking his eyes from her to look around the room again.

            Hawke was quiet for a moment, their silence taken over by the normal den of the patrons around them. When at one time Fenris remembered the natural lulls in conversation between them usually being pleasant, now they were weighty and stiff with things unsaid. Fenris pressed his lips together, feeling the guilt of leaving that night threatening to crawl up his esophagus from the pit in his gut where he continuously attempted to drown it with little success.

            “Hawke--.”

            “Fenris--.”

            The two stopped as they interrupted each other, exchanging a surprised and then uncomfortable look. Hawke cleared this throat and broke eye contact first, “Go ahead.”

            “N-no, it is not important,” Fenris replied, lying more easily than he had anticipated.

            Hawke shot him a doubtful look before obliging regardless. “Have you tried to follow up with that information on your sister?”

            The elf resisted shaking his head in exasperation, instead lifting his hand to card his gauntleted fingers through his hair, pulling his bangs back over his scalp. The lyrium dots on his forehead shown for a brief moment before his hair fell back into place, covering them.

            “Yes.”

            Hawke shifted, surprised, “Really? Have you had any luck?”

            “Not enough to discuss,” Fenris answered stiffly, not wishing to speak of his “family.” The gulf between he and Hawke only grew wider as he considered their differences more and more, that chasm dwarfing what he thought it was when he had sat in the foyer of the man’s mansion, itching to tell him how he felt. He should never have—well, it was pointless to regret it now.

            The Champion laced his fingers together and placed them in his lap, the hood of his cloak bunching up around his neck as he glanced away from Fenris. “I understand,” he said, returning his gaze back to the elf, “But family is important. Whenever you find anything, let me know. I think you would be happy if you finally met your sister.”

            The question escaped before he could stop it, “Why?”

            Hawke canted his head for a moment as he considered, “It’s your only support network, Fenris. After all your friends leave, family will never leave you.”

            “But it can be taken away from you,” Fenris responded without thinking. “Just like friends.”

            Hawke’s faced hardened, his eyes clouding as he distanced himself mentally from that statement, if just for a moment.

            Fenris grimaced and shook his head, not meaning to say it like that. He hadn’t gone to comfort him when his mother had died. Well, no, he had, only to find out that Anders had arrived to do it before him.

            He gritted his teeth and looked away, focusing the angry glare at a fixed point on the floor away from his friend. Jealousy was far more painful than he realized it would be in a situation like this, and he had yet to find out how best to equip himself to fight it.

            “I still have family,” he finally said, “And even then, what little I have left will not abandon me.”

            The elf almost couldn’t contain his shudder from the venom in the man’s voice. His mother was still not long dead, the missive he sent to Carver likely still being exchanged through couriers on the way to the Grey Warden’s attention. To receive that kind of news… He wondered how he would take it.

            “I did not mean it like that, Hawke,” Fenris finally responded, realizing that his posture was stiff with anxiety. He attempted to force himself into more of a relaxed slouch with no success.

            “Then enlighten me.”

            The defensive anger was starting to come back and he hated that he felt this way around Hawke at all, but it had come to define their relationship more often than the respect he held for him. It was starting to become almost tiring.

            “What’s the point if learning who my sister is can only cause me pain when she’s taken away? I don’t remember what it’s like to have a family, and maybe it’s better that way,” he finally told him, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to be having this conversation at all, much less in a public place.

            Hawke’s expression was disapproving and conflicted. “Nothing compares to it, Fenris. I think it would benefit you to know what it’s like.”

            “To know what it _was_ like? For all I know, my sister is dead; all of my relatives could be dead and I would have no way of knowing,” he fired back, trying and failing to keep his angry expression away from Hawke’s direction. “The only thing I know for certain is that she exists, or existed at one point. What’s the good in that if she just ends up being dead?”

            Hawke crossed his arms over his chest, “At least you’ll know what you had.”

            A bitter laugh escaped Fenris before he could clamp it down, all of the earnest conversations, or rather lectures, of Merrill talking about the history of the elves coming back in an echo. “You sound like Merrill.”

            Hawke took offense to that. “I’m serious!”

            “You think I’m not?” he retorted, “I have already endured lectures from her about how important ‘my’ history is when it has nothing to do with me. How is family not exactly the same? I have no memory of them, and they haven’t influenced my life at all since the branding. What does it matter?” He was being defensive, I knew that, but his self-restraint was blunted by the alcohol and the frustration he’d been carrying for months on end.

            Hawke snapped his eyes closed and shook his head, rubbing at his face exasperatedly. They were both tired. “You don’t get it.”

            “No, I don’t,” he huffed, mirroring the frustrated posture of the other.

            He sighed, his strong arms falling to hang limp by his sides. The heavy boots were still on the table, but his concentration of keeping himself back was waning, the chair slowly coming back to rest on all of its legs. “Friends can be family too, but not _real_ family. Even when you get married, it’s still different from your parents, your siblings,” he started, his stream of consciousness trickling from him with little to dam any of it up. “My father, Bethany, my mother… There will never be anyone like that again in my life. They’re gone and I can never have them back, but my memories of them…that still remains.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, let alone the companion beside him.

            All Fenris could hear was pain. The pain of loss, the pain of remembering what he had, the pain of knowing that the loss was permanent. Death separated him from what he cherished, and that separation was inevitable. Why would he want to know that pain, to learn that kind of remorse and want? What good would it do him other to bring him more misery? To "know what he had" was just a platitude, empty and useless.

            He wanted to say something, but what came out was not what he wanted, “I don’t want to know your loss, Hawke. My life has had enough pain and misery. The last thing I need is more.”

            The glint of gold flashed frighteningly as Hawke’s head snapped to look at him, anger boiling just behind those eyes. He moved his feet from the table and planted them firmly on the ground, his muscular back and shoulders tense and angry with the loud _thunk_ of his steel-toed shoes.

            Fenris grimaced, realizing how what he said sounded as he took in his reaction. Something deep inside him shivered in fear, but it was very small and easy to ignore. “I did not mean--.”

            “Of course you didn’t,” he retorted, voice hard and low in great contrast to the arguably more distant tone he had a moment ago. He was here now, and he was angry. “You just talk without even _thinking_. What _else_ could you possibly have meant by that?”

            Fenris had a retort forming in his head but it vanished when Hawke stood from the chair, glaring down with an anger that had never been directed at him before. Even when they had disagreed before or Fenris misspoke, it had never been like this.

            Fenris moved quickly to his feet on instinct, the disadvantage of being seated against a possible aggressor putting him on edge. He grimaced. That term twisted his guts even as it came to him. “Aggressor.” What had happened to them to get to this point? It couldn’t have been him leaving, could it? It had to be something else. Was the stress of being the Champion doing it? Or losing his mother? He glanced around the tavern to be sure no one was staring at them.

            Hawke set his jaw. “Are you afraid of me, Fenris?”

            His head snapped to attention, “What?”

            “Are you afraid of me?” His tone was stern and hard, but there was a weakness in it, sadness at having to ask the question at all.

            Fenris’s head spun with possible answers, his nerves still on edge _. I’m afraid of what you make me feel. I’m afraid of making a mistake and being unable to fix it. I’m afraid of you reciprocating my affection. I’m afraid of losing it. I’m afraid…_

            “I’m afraid I never understood to begin with,” he murmured, realizing after saying it that he had uttered it aloud.

            Hawke’s face shifted, the scarred flesh on his nose pinched in the center and Fenris had no desire to wait around to hear his response.

            He turned on his heel and bolted out of the tavern. The noise, the heat, the ale, it was all coming in around him and he needed air; he needed to get out and away from Hawke. Running again, as usual. Just like he had when he tried to comfort him in the holding caves. Just like he had from his mansion that night.

            He clenched his teeth as he walked into Lotown proper, the chill of the night air wrapping over his skin like unwelcome, clammy fingers. He shuddered and hesitated in his stride before moving to continue towards the ascent to High Town, to his mansion where he could wallow and self-chastise in peace.

            The sudden feeling of Hawke’s aura on his skin tore him between staying put and breaking into a run.

            “Fenris.”

            His voice stopped him. He sighed, but didn’t turn around.

            After he didn’t answer, Hawke sighed as well and added, “You’re pushing me away.”

            Fenris tilted his head in a thoughtful, pensive way. Was he? He didn’t think he had started acting or speaking differently, but then again, he had isolated himself for months after he left the Amell estate that night. Hawke had given him time to gather himself together, but maybe that hadn’t been all it was. He could have been waiting for him to come back, hurt and upset, and that was where that guilt had come from, wasn’t it? That he couldn’t return what Hawke wanted, that he was terrified of that kind of connection to begin with. Romantic relationships…they just didn’t suit him, and Hawke just didn’t know it then.

            “Am I?” he finally asked, turning around to face him. The lantern lit the entrance way to the tavern well enough, and it cast an orange light over Hawke, shining in his dark hair. His frown was disappointed, but not of Fenris. The cracks that had been forming all this time were almost too easy to see now under the light, under the weight of the question that hung between them. He was disappointed in everything, Fenris realized. His family, the Blight, Kirkwall, the tension between mages and templars, in losing his home, they were all things he couldn’t change or get back. They were things the Champion couldn’t control, and neither was he.

            The effects of the drink were coming in waves and it started to flood back into Fenris’s mind, the threat of altercation had chased away the effects and sobered him up for a moment, but the adrenaline was receding, and with it his balance.

            He sighed and leaned against the wall of the building, the fog of regret and ale overcoming him for a moment. “I don’t want to run from you, Hawke, I never have.”

            Hawke looked at him for a moment, the exhaustion starting to settle in the lines around his eyes. That admission likely didn’t make any of this any easier. Fenris realized he should probably stop talking, afraid he might confess more than he needed to. It had already nearly gotten them into another shouting match just moments earlier.

            He blinked and when he opened his eyes again Hawke was close, standing in front of him and leaning over to look at his face. He nearly jumped, his groggy alcohol-ridden reaction time transforming it to just straightening up quickly. He realized he was between the wall and Hawke, mirroring the night Hawke took him to bed, and the anxiety of remembering it all mixed into a mess of other conflicting emotions from just minutes ago. His urge to escape and his desire to re-enact that night pulled him in opposite directions. He preferred when Hawke was an angry, blunt battering ram, it made it far easier to know what action to take.

            “Then don’t,” Hawke murmured, moving his face to hover close to Fenris’s. His voice was gentle, but his gaze was still intense, trying to keep him where he stood, like a gentle hand with a firm grip.

            Fenris cast his eyes away but he couldn’t settle them anywhere. Breathing was becoming a struggle as the air shuddered through his nose and he looked at Hawke’s lips, pressing his hands against the cold stone that grated against his back and arms. The points on the fingers of his gauntlets pressed against the surface.

            With great effort, he looked up at Hawke again, meeting his piercing eyes with whatever expression he was wearing. “Hawke,” he pleaded, not knowing what he was pleading for when he said it, his voice barely more than a whisper.

            Even if Fernis didn’t know what he wanted, Hawke found an answer. He reached up to touch Fenris’s face, a callused thumb taking a route it had not traveled in a long time as the other fingers moved to graze against his jaw and neck, curving over his hair line. Fenris barely had time to react to the touch before his mouth was on him, chapped lips meeting his in a kiss that he had thought about since their first one, over and over again since he’d run back to the safety of his isolation.

            He kissed him back, one drive winning over the other as the familiar taste touched his tongue and Hawke’s eagerness took over, his other hand grasping at his narrow hips as he deepened the kiss. The kiss burned, not unlike how it did before, but there was an edge this time. Where the first one was a release of pent up emotion and need that was freeing, this felt driven by something less desirable, something that shouldn’t be encouraged. It felt… _wrong._

            As Hawke’s tongue slide over Fenris’s unbidden, the heat between the two of them escalating as the elf nearly uncoiled to sag against the wall and let this happen, let him have him, like he’d thought about in so many scenarios that didn’t match this one, a voice sprang to his mind utterly unwelcome.

            “ _Even if he isn’t here for you, I’m here. Whatever you need, Hawke, I can give it to you.”_

            That stupid, _stupid_ mage.

            He broke the kiss and struggled to take a breath, moving his head against the stone and pointing his face down, his eyes screwed shut, the guilt and jealousy near to boiling inside of him. He couldn’t do this, not when he knew about Anders, about Hawke and Anders.

            The hand on his hip slipped off to press against the stone beside it. Hawke was stiff for a moment before he took the hand away from Fenris’s face, only to touch his jaw and force his face up.

            “Fenris,” he began, voice shaking under the weight of so many things that Fenris couldn’t bear to think about right now. “Fenris, I don’t want to lose you.”

            His breath strained his chest as the air rushed into his lungs, tasting of Hawke and desperate loneliness. Fenris opened his eyes to look at him, and regretted it. The cracks were everywhere. He looked like he would almost crumble apart in front of him like the ashes settling after the death of a demon. He had never seen him so expressive in his pain and his anguish, and it killed him to resist him.

            “Hawke…”

            “I need…I _need_ you.”

            Fenris blinked, something inside his head clicking. The gauntlets scratched along the wall has he brought his fingers to curl close to his palm. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

            Hawke’s eyes narrowed a moment, “What?” He sounded on the verge of an emotional crisis.

            “No. You need someone, Hawke, but you don’t need me,” Fenris replied, letting his head rest against the stone behind him again.

            His narrowed eyes grew skeptical, hurt, as he stepped away. “What?”

            He finally found his footing and took a firm stance, “What is Anders to you, then?”

            Surprise flashed over his face before it was replaced by a defensive expression. Then guilt. He looked away.

            Fenris sighed, moving away from the wall, “I can’t…do this, Hawke.”

            He was given a cold look before it was cast back towards the ground, eyebrows knitting, obscuring the path the scar took over his brow. Fenris sighed and looked away as well, the both of them lapsing into a brief, awkward silence.

            “I love him.”

            Fenris flinched and looked over at Hawke who still looked way, eyes leveled at an open, barren window somewhere further down the road.

            “Then why--?”

            “Because I loved you too, once.”

            Where bittersweet joy should be in the column running towards his throat Fenris only felt anguish. Hawke continued, “But it’s not…it’s not the same, and I just--,” he finally turned to look at Fenris but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he shook his head and took a deep breath, dragging his nails through his hair. “I don’t _know_ anymore.”

            “You don’t know what?”

            He chuckled, exasperated, “Anything.”

            He was breaking apart, that much was obvious. Even if Fenris couldn't pinpoint the reason (perhaps it was all of them) he knew that what the Champion needed now was support from those he trusted. Any bitterness he had about Hawke's decisions and his attitude towards his opinions would need to be set aside, at least for this moment. Even so, no matter how volatile Anders was and no matter how bitter it tasted on his tongue, Fenris knew that Hawke still had people to go home to, and he still had family, whatever his absent brother and his present uncle were worth. Even if Fenris was could not be the person to hold him when he needed it, he would remain by his side and help him. Was this what it meant to be a friend to someone? If this was friendship...he didn't mind it so much.

            After waiting a moment, realizing that Hawke wasn’t going to continue, Fenris reached over and touched his arm, grasping his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “I may not…know what you’re going through, Hawke, but you still have us.”

            He sighed, but didn’t move away.

            “You have helped me when I needed you,” Fenris told him, taking his hand away, worried that prolonged touching would send them both back to the precarious position they were in a moment ago. This was better, this was progress. This wasn’t stilted conversations and pensive disagreements, this was moving on. He realized it now, and he was happier for it. “I will always be with you, Hawke. Whenever you need me you will always have me.”

            Hawke twisted his brow in a peculiar way before looking away again, raising his broad hand to stifle what sounded like a chuckle. It was an odd reaction, one Fenris had not anticipated.

            He turned back towards him and took his hand away, teeth still just barely showing. It was the first real smile he’d had all night, but this was not the place in the conversation for it, was it? It was too tight around the eyes, like he was fighting to restrain it to what it was, and there was a war in them, a war that he realized had been there for a long, long time. It was a battle of turmoil and emotion, desire and need, admiration and anger that Fenris would never truly understand, just the taste of the enigma of a man that stood before him. No, he realized. He never did understand, and perhaps he never could understand him after all. Whatever love that was between them would have been doomed from the moment it started.

            Hawke muttered one last thing that night before heading home ahead of Fenris, back to his family’s estate with Orana and Bodhain, his dog and Anders, the empty rooms for his mother and brother that would remain empty and untouched. In a house that was both too big for him and yet not big enough. With that danger in his eyes he echoed, “I will always have you.”

            The barren rooms in Fenris’s mansion had never felt so empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this was a one shot originally, this isn't beta read. Thanks to everyone who was so patient for the last few months! I hope to get Chapter 16 up in a timely manner.
> 
> The song primarily responsible for this memory are ["Lexington (Joey Pea-Pot with a Monkey Face)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sRHgSXXIyY) by Chiodos. Although it doesn't fit the tone as much now, it helped immensely in the planning stages.


End file.
